Category: Shared Grief (Page 13 of 20)

Exercising the Right To Die

January 16, 2022 / Mama Fish

Vera, the mother of a friend of mine, ended up in the hospital during the holidays and was told that her health was not good enough to return home. At a young 94 years, she did not see or hear well, and her body was not going to get better, thus a nursing home would be more suitable. Not wanting any part of that, she called in the family and MAID and selected the date and time she would ‘check out’.

If you knew Vera, this would not surprise you. An artist, in every definition of the word, she lived a full human experience as mother, friend, mentor and life-positive enthusiast. She laughed, she loved a cold gin and she painted everything she touched with an array of happy colors. Her motto was “be true to yourself”. No, it would not be fitting to have her stripped of her independence and art studio to finish her days in a place that she described as depressing. To each his own and for her, the end of the road would come when she could no longer live in her home. That day arrived and she enjoyed family and friends and even hospital food up to the last hour. She was ready. With her family around her, the doctor put her to sleep and off she went to meet up with her beloved husband, family and friends that had gone before her. Peaceful, beautiful and a bit surreal.

I went over to her home after to choose one of her paintings, a gift of her to keep with me. I hugged my friends and listened as they shared pictures of her of that morning and stories of how the experience was for them. And then they went back to cleaning and purging her home to get it ready for sale. I watched. Curious how life doesn’t ever stop for long. For them, it stopped long enough to hold her and wish her goodbye. They are grateful she went out on her own terms. They are grateful that they were able to say all that needed to be said. They are grateful there was no suffering. Truly, as far as death goes, it was a 5-star event.

So, what does the future look like for them? We know there will be grief; it is the other side of love, and she was loved. Does the ability to have a loved one die like that change grief? Does it make it easier? What will their ‘what if’ questions be like, if any? I have never known anyone who has experienced this type of death. I see my friends are sad. I see they are overwhelmed with the tasks at hand to get her estate in order. I see their strength as they gather to get the job done for and in honor of their mother.

I watch. This is the housekeeping of death; preparing for funeral, issuing the will, the robotic actions that we all must do when a loved one leaves. No matter how they leave. These tasks keep grief at bay until they are finished. Oh yes, I remember how this part was for me, like darkened glimpses of a bad movie.

I have put a bottle of wine aside for when grief settles in, I will be there to sit with their pain. And for Vera, my heart is happy for her. I know when I see a beautiful sunset or a field of daisies, the splashing’s of color, natures canvas, painted by the beautiful Angel Vera.

Packing My Invisible Suitcases

January 9, 2022 / Mama Fish

Since my brother-in-law’s grim diagnosis that the cancer has spread, he has gone back to work. And not just a nine to five shift. No, he has submerged himself, literally locked himself in his office to continue working against his doctor’s advice to quit his job and enjoy the last few months given to him. Classic denial.

In grief, denial is a stage we all experience. My brother-in-law could be spending this time writing letters to his wife to receive after he is gone. He could be mending fences with his son. He could be resting in hopes that taking care of his health might grant him extra time. Denial has replaced all these opportunities with the need to work rather than face his sentence. I get it. If he doesn’t think about it, it won’t happen. If he works hard, time will fly, money will come in, needed money to leave his family. It is almost heroic. It is also small picture. This is the sadness of denial.

I have often said that denial is the stage I could live in. It is a stage that protects my heart from the truth. It is a stage that allows me to ignore my hurt and bask in the concept (the hope) that this is not my reality. The reality that there is nothing you can do to change it. Denial shouts inside of you, “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING” as if this scream could change things. It is loud and upset with God. It keeps me from looking at the big, ugly picture. This is the anger of denial.

And so, when I watch my brother-in-law, I understand. He is living in the stage I go to when the pain is too much. I am patient with him. This is something he needs to wallow in; the denial of the truth that he will not grow old with his beloved wife. I get it. I just hope that he wants to examine his reality, if even for a couple moments, to ensure that when the time does come, he is leaving this realm personally satisfied in how he spent his last months.

I selfishly want him to leave this denial stage for just a bit. There are so many things I want to talk to him about before he goes. There are questions and shared memories and more laughs I want from him before he goes. Knowing he does not have long, I have invisible suitcases that I want to pack full of memories, conversations, understandings that will sustain me after he is gone.

We are told time is not on our side. Who really knows. Past the denial, he is ultimately aware of this. I must remember, this is his life, his time. I must respect how he wishes to spend it. So, I pack my invisible suitcases with all the love and fondness and the gratitude I have for him; folded next to all the things I want to say to him. When he is ready, I will open it up and share. And in the sharing, I hope for more memories with him to add to my suitcases. Alas, if time does not give me this, then I will open my suitcases in ceremony to share with the heavens. And that will have to suffice.

Putting on Yellow Rainboots

January 2, 2022 / Mama Fish

Here we are. 2022. A New Year. And yet nothing has changed. You are still there. I am still here. What will this year bring? More struggle, more sorrow?

What would you want for me? I know not that. And yet, here I am. Perhaps this year I will try something different. Something new. Perhaps this year I will put on yellow rainboots and splash in the puddles of my tears.

Perhaps I will hike, in yellow rainboots to new paths that I know we wanted to travel together. And I will carry my notebook, I will carry your camera. And I will write about these adventures.

I will take this year to notice the signs from you, from heaven, even more so. Your guidance will move me, in yellow rainboots, towards the sites we wish to go.

The rain can splash onto my yellow rainboots, each tiny drop bringing me a memory of you. A reminder that you are always beside me. That we walked this life together and that we still do.

Maybe, just maybe, this could be a better year with a pair of yellow rainboots. A sunny, yellow, symbol of hope. A comfortable, warm, protective apparel to move me forward.

Yes, perhaps this year I will find the strength to carry on with the help of a pair of yellow rainboots.

There is No Boxing Up Grief

December 26, 2021 / Mama Fish

It is boxing day. I had thought I wanted to shake up this holiday and it happened. Christmas ended with my daughter going to see her fiancé’s family after giving us a gift to go enjoy the night in Canmore. We took the dog. I drove. It was -28. We found Famous Chinese Food open and shared a dinner for one in our room. We had wine and magazines and appies (previously packed in Calgary to accompany our adventure). All in all, a nice night. Different. The mountains are always a soothing sight and the fact that Payton wished this for me was a gift.

I received some wonderful gifts this season. Among them was a gift from Alyssa. This thoughtful young woman dated Zane and remained friends with our family after Zane was killed. She is the one that filled our home and albums of incredible photos she and Zane had taken on their adventures. Last year, she gave me a framed print of Zane and her sitting on Santa’s knee. This year, she posted a ‘live picture’ of Zane. We could hear his voice and see him smile as he turned in the three seconds of time this photo carried. It was alive. We all enjoyed this gift.

In Canmore, I took my phone out after Jon and I had retired to bed and played this picture. Over and over. Hearing his voice, seeing his gentle shy smile. He was enjoying that day. I began to think of how many days he enjoyed, his adventures with his camera, his friends, the girls that he loved. And my grief came crashing into the room to sit next to me.

I know I am a proponent of taking time out to feel your pain and reflect, meeting your grief face to face. However, on the very cold Christmas night, huddled in the silent room, the hustle of the season faded away, and left me sitting in the middle of a lot of memories of holidays past. My reality became very loud. My holidays are no longer filled with his incredible laugh and tight hugs and no matter what I do to ease the pain, the holidays seem to bring it bubbling to the surface. I know this. We all know this. It is why the holidays are dreaded.

I remembered what we learned about grief bursts. I took a deep breath and closed my phone. I took another deep breath. I poured myself a tea and pet Tango. I curled up with a pillow and reached out to my grief friends online. “Thinking of you…” And then I talked to Zane. “Would love a visit; I know you are here but send me a sign. I am really missing you right now”. I took out a magazine (another gift I received) and started reading it, letting my mind fill with health tips and new recipes to try. And I nodded off to sleep.

We know things don’t get easier; we just grow stronger with practice. And the holidays offer us lots of practice! We shook things up, tried something new. And it was lovely overall. What I realized is, although I don’t want, I need distractions at the holidays. I was reminded that grief travels with you. Santa can’t bring me the miracle I want. The ghosts of Christmas past will show up. I am not surprised by these understandings, but I am a little saddened. And why I think next year I will choose noise and a movie. Distractions have their place. Christmas is one of them.

Healing Messages from Hallmark Movies

December 19, 2021 / Mama Fish

I am a sucker for Hallmark movies. They are my brain candy. Zane would laugh at me, as I would tape and then binge watch into the summer months! He called me cute. I now believe that the messages of these gentle and comforting movies are sent from above.

Since Zane’s death, I have found that there is some sort of cosmic coincidence that I choose a certain movie from the collection of recordings on a particular day, that has a specific message I need to hear, on that day. Such was the movie, “Debbie Macomber’s A Mrs. Miracle Christmas”. A story of loss; a woman who lost a daughter, and recently her husband, her granddaughter, having lost her mother at six and most recently her foster child (although the foster child did not die, he went back to his biological mother) and even Mrs. Miracle, obviously the angel sent to ‘fix’ their broken hearts…she too had lost a child. The irony of watching all their broken hearts, stuck in grief, and trying to move forward. Who can’t relate to this? I was crying before the first advertisement.

What I love about Hallmark movies is that there is always a peaceful ending. There is always hope. This one did not disappoint. The obvious messages: have faith, lean on your friends for support, honor your loved ones (here and those who have passed) were loud and clear. It is the subliminal messages that, if you watch closer, are the messages from heaven. Or, for me, come from Zane.

This movie told us of an angel who knew firsthand the impact of losing a child and yet she continued, serving others, holding her faith, experiencing joy in her every day. And why? Because she knew life was eternal. She knew her daughter existed, and that they would see each other again. There was the message for the granddaughter who is reminded that her role is of mother. Mother is a role that is shared with your own children and those children who ‘show up’ in your life for however short a time that might be. You are always mother. And Grandma…yes, she heals and moves forward but the more important, quieter message is that she moves forward because she embraces her grief and finds ways to make friends with it.

Oh Hallmark, I don’t know what I would do without you. Your movies have become a lifeline to tuning out the current reality for a bit and immersing myself in the hope and joy found in your characters. Whose message, magically, sticks with me and gives me strength to go on.

Thank you, Zane, for picking out just the right messages that I need to hear. Or be reminded of. This last movie was a doozy; I needed to be reminded I am always mother, that you are here if I just ‘see’ you. And that my grief will one day softly live in the ways in which I honor you. There is hope I will feel joy again. And that is the Christmas gift from Hallmark.

The World Lights a Candle Today

December 12, 2021 / Mama Fish

Oh, how the heavens must look on world candle lighting day

The billions of tiny flames, lit by those grieving

Small lights flickering towards the sky, waving to you,

As a symbol that we remember, our love is eternal.

Do you see it?

Do you gather there, like we do here,

As we look up, are you looking down?

As we stand by the little light of love,

Do you see the tears, the pain, the emptiness we feel?

Does the candle bring that message with it,

Because that is part of it; you are missed.

Do you feel the warmth from the light of this candle,

Like the warmth of the love, we have for you

That grief cannot take away

Does its scent bring memories to you of our times together?

This candle, this small beacon, sending a message to you

In its flame, of hope that we will continue to share life

In some other, estranged but meaningful way

We will still have moments together,

There will be laughter, amongst the tears.

I believe you see the lighted candles,

The message is received, and you reply to us,

With your own candle, lit from where you are,

We see as the twinkling of the stars

Which send a message of assurance,

“Mama, we will always be connected”

The Arrival of Anticipated Grief

December 5, 2021 / Mama Fish

I’ve been watching my sweet little dog start to stumble as we walk, and I realize he is closer to the “rainbow bridge” than I want. Or need him to be. He has been the lifeline for me, for 15 years, especially after Zane was killed. I expect him to live to a ripe old and unrealistic age of 40. At the same time, my sister calls to share that her husband has cancer. The doctor has told them there is nothing they can do. In his professional opinion, he has another six to nine months. This is the arrival of anticipated grief.

The magic of anticipated grief gives you a false sense of security. Shock, mixed with a bit of denial gives you the impression that you have more time. I mean the dog still runs like a puppy and my brother-in-law still goes to work. They look ok. For now. The beginning of anticipated grief is the sense that everything looks ok so must be ok. We still have time.

The hope of anticipated grief brings an illusion that this is not happening at all. I mean they are still here. Both dog and brother-in-law. And we have learned through painful, firsthand experience that the only true expert to dictate when you check out is God. It is this hope that anticipated grief dangles in front of you like the golden carrot. The conversations become what if and what can we do and is this true. How can this be right?

The beauty of anticipated grief is that it gives you the luxury of planning. As my sister and her husband go about the daily routine activities of life, there is time to think about the afterlife. What do we want for a funeral, what bridges might we mend before we go, are the wills in order? This gift of time enables you to prepare for things that must be handled, that if you were dealing with a sudden death, they become priorities and not a lot of consideration to choices. My brother-in-law has a say in what he would like to have included now and after he leaves.

The agony of anticipated grief is that you know it is coming to stay. When I think of my little dog not here, I pick him up and cuddle him. As a sort of way of telling grief, “See, you cannot come, my dog is here, go away”. And yet, my heart knows that there will come a day, when it will be grief’s turn to say, “I’m sorry for your loss, I have come to live with you. Again.”

The Tipping Point of Grief

November 28, 2021 / Mama Fish

With the donations that my work received, in honor of Zane, we agreed to create a community project that would benefit youth. We chose mindful photography because of Zane’s passion for taking pictures and how he believed that getting behind the camera reduces anxiety and improves mental health. There were many people along the way that made this happen starting with a close friend who creatively named our course #zaneography and single handily arranged all the pieces to make it happen. Last week I attended the wrap up of the first class. I was not prepared.

I sat on the sidelines watching the beautiful, skilled facilitator talk about the pictures that the youth had taken. Her words were kind and motivating, capturing the blossoming talent of each participant. She had printed their work on a black background and had them hanging on the wall. The participants showed pride and commented on how they enjoyed this experience and how they want to continue shooting pictures. Oh, how my son would enjoy hearing this. And perhaps that was the tipping point of my grief burst.

As the youth chatted over pizza, I stood up and went over to take a closer look at the pictures. They all told a story, illustrating the lessons of using dark and light that they had learned. One photo, taken by a youth that I felt had a similar energy to Zane, took a silhouette picture of himself under a lamp pole. It captured the light and mood perfectly and it reminded me of pictures Zane had taken of himself under a streetlight at a construction site. And perhaps that was the tipping point of my grief burst.

I said my goodbyes and the facilitator hugged me. As I held her, I thanked her for her very large and important part in making this happen and I realized just how this desire to honor my son was something that I had not been sure would ever happen. And perhaps that was the tipping point of my grief burst.

I left, barely getting to my car before the tears came. Sitting in my car, sobbing, the pain of my son not being here to take more photos, to enjoy another adventure of finding the perfect subject, the perfect light to capture a moment. Oh, how he loved photography. How the camera soothed his soul and excited him to find new ways to look at life. I sat crying and shouting to God where was his justice until I was hoarse.

We are taught to honor our children. We are told that good mourning is about finding ways to continue to do what they loved. We are told of the importance to share their passions with others; to remember them through the sharing of what they enjoyed in life. What they didn’t tell us, or what I seemed to have missed, is the pain that comes with this. The sharing, experiencing first-hand what they loved without their physical presence is the tipping point of grief bursts.

The ‘bitter-sweet’ they call it; happy to see it happen but sad that your child is not a part of it. That part. It has a cutting edge to it that does not comfort you but rather slices you open to reveal the pain and injustice of your life. It is raw. It is painful. And yet, would I change it? No. Because the other thing we grief warriors have learned is that the pain of grief only equals the love we have. And for Zane, there is a whole lot of love.

The Need to Switch Up the Holidays

November 21, 2021 / Mama Fish

I continue to think about the holidays, and how to shake them up so that joy is found. How do we plan this festive season, filling in ‘the empty chair’ that is the elephant in the room?

We are taught to honor our children, especially during the holidays. So, each year I think of creative ways that Zane would appreciate to celebrate his energy and his love he had for this life. His birthdays are easier. We have tied ribbons to trees, played stampede games (with prizes), and passed out pay it forward cards. His last birthday I made a ’30 things to do for Zane’ in honor of his 30^th birthday. Christmas seems harder and why is that?

It might be because birthdays seem to be about the individual. We celebrate the person, who they are, what they did or do and how that makes us feel. Christmas is melancholier. This holiday is promoted about being together and ‘coming home’ and it all working out in the end. All things that are not possible for us. And it is this overall innuendo of what Christmas should be that I think makes it worse than other annual holidays.

If there is truth to this theory, then what can we do to soften it? I think the suggestion of what we do to honor our loved ones plays a different role here. Maybe the past holidays I have tried to ‘bring him home’ too much. I have his own tree decorated and his culinary favorites forefront at every meal and his gifts (that he should be enjoying) bought and wrapped. Crazy? Well, I was told to do whatever makes you feel better. And the truth is, nothing makes me feel better. And that realization, struck me. Hard.

Christmas will always be a holiday that will not, with all its magic, bring me back to any time before Zane was killed. Christmas must become something different. Christmas must be revamped so that I can be present with those that are here and not deaf to their joy because of my own pain. So, I ponder what will I do different. And whatever I decide to do, Christmas will come and go. And this fact gives me the freedom and the permission to shake it up.

Finding Joy this Holiday Season

November 14, 2021 / Mama Fish

Every year I try to be ready for the holiday season so that when it arrives, I can enjoy it. It is a perennial battle that I have yet to win. This year, for some reason, I have higher hopes it might work. It might be because it is our first Christmas in our little home. I must scale back including no fresh tall tree…it gives me permission to shake things up. And perhaps with small edits to our family traditions, I can find some joy this holiday.

I remember Zane teaching me about the difference between joy and happiness. He said happiness is fleeting. It is a quick moment in time you feel elated because of something or someone. Joy is eternal. Joy is a deeper, quieter, peaceful feeling of contentment. It is the emotion one should seek.

Once, when I told him about doing something I wasn’t happy to do but that I had completed it and had done a great job, he smiled. He said, “but mom, you did not do it with joy”. If I had, the experience would have been so much more. How did my son get to be so wise? These were the type of lessons he taught. I must remember this one; that joy is found in everyday, simple things.

What I hope he does know, is the joy he brought me. I wrote to Zane.

“…How much joy I have had in raising you, sharing life with you, watching you morph into this beautiful, caring empath. Oh, the joy you brought me. The laughter. The insights to life. The love. My soul is filled with the love you shared with me. I have enough hugs and kisses from you that will sustain me while I live here on earth. I was looking for more joy and the truth was, with you, I had enough.”

As we prepare for the holidays, and even beyond the holidays, let us try to remember that there is joy even in grief. We can find that soft feeling joy brings in the memories of times spent with those we love. We can feel our hearts warm to the recalling of conversations and adventures we had with our loved ones. And the joy that these thoughts bring us, will always belong to us. Even when our loved ones are not physically here, they will always be our joyful memories. May that awareness help ease your grief.