Category: Shared Grief (Page 14 of 22)

Finding Your Truth

February 6, 2022 / Mama Fish

I have been inclined to defend my thoughts and actions in the past while to current times or more specifically that grief has turned me into a bitch. I have become less tolerant; I say no more often, I exercise boundaries more often and feel less guilty about it. I am starting to practice self-care, still being kind to others but also to myself. I am looking at my life as if it were in a petri dish under a microscope and what I like I want more of. What I don’t like, I am losing patience with keeping around. It is a new and scary feeling.

I was told in grief counselling that around the 1.5-year mark after a child’s death, mothers begin to ‘find their voice’. We have been stripped of every ideal reality, every role we know of and are left to start again. Within this, it is common for us to find our truth.

Part of this finding involves the grief bursts and rage bursts. We are out of our body with grief. This is normal and practicing grounding is a suggested technique to help. It is simple and can be done anywhere without looking crazy.

Stand with your feet slightly apart and solid on the ground. Close your eyes. Feel the ground under your feet. Know the ground is solid, you are touching it, connected to its hold. It will not let you fall. Feel your energy flow through your body and down into your legs, your feet and into the ground, tying you to its earth. Feel this strength. It is calm. Solid. It can carry you. Breathe.

I practice this exercise lots. I find it works; the angry energy, the silent scream from inside travels through me and into the ground where it is soaked up and contained.

As we put into place new practices to survive, there is solace in knowing that we are not crazy. We are given permission to try new things and change it up to create a warm, comforting environment that supports our pain. We have permission to reflect on what we want, what we need, and how to change to receive that. That is enlightening.

I wrote to Zane about this.

“…so, we don’t really become bitches as I thought. We develop this gentle but firm presence, a sort of this is who I am take it or leave it attitude. All things you wanted for me. How ironic… so, I have chosen to look at this upcoming transformation as another gift from you.”

I am curious, who I will become when I find my truth. I do know that it will be centered around what Zane had hoped for me and what I had hoped for him.

Tattooing Grief

January 30, 2022 / Mama Fish

My daughter has over a dozen tattoos. Each one I would complain, “how can you do that to your body, you know it stays there forever”. To which she would retort, “my body is my life canvas, I am painting it”. Working with youth, my theory was (and still is) that tattoos are a way of expressing emotional pain.

Each year, since Zane was killed, I find myself at the table of my beautiful tattoo artist. The first year, Zane’s words, telling me he loved me were imprinted into my forearm. The second year was a feather on my ankle (a touch up of a teenage tattoo that I have regretted and wanted covered) and the third was an outline of the kids and I when they were younger. I have this year’s tattoo picked out.

A fellow grief warrior shared with me that she has a plan for not one, but two tattoos in honor of her son. She never had one before and didn’t really like them. She was perplexed that she wanted any, let alone two. I shared my story and she asked why do we feel an urge to do this?

I believe it goes back to my original theory. We live in emotional pain and a tattoo is a way of expressing to the world, “I carry loss”. The desire for a tattoo is common amongst those in mourning. I have come to believe that the choice of getting a tattoo is not the point, but rather the choice of what would you like inked for eternity on your body is.

What message do you want it to say? What do you want it to represent? Of course, it is about our loved one so it should contain something that they liked or were like or reminds you of a certain characteristic of them. I believe where it is placed is important, especially if you plan for more. (And I have found never say never to that idea!) Certain body parts are more sensitive like your ankle or rib cage where the skin is thinner so a smaller tattoo in those places might be preferred. Angel wings, butterflies or other mystical, message-carrying guides are also common to incorporate in a memorial tattoo.

Color is important. Bright colors bring a different energy than a soft watercolor or the subtle tones of grey. What was your child’s favorite color? What colors bring you a feeling of peace? Imagination and Pinterest are your friends as the ideas are infinite.

For me, there is no plan to stop this tradition, which I do each year before or on the day he was killed. I have told my family that it is something I feel I NEED to do and one year I might wake up and say enough. Until then, this ritual brings a weird calm; an annual testament letting the world know, “I am in pain”. And to Zane, it states, “I will never forget you. You are always with me”.

The Zombie That Is Grief

January 23, 2022 / Mama Fish

I am not sure if it is that the holidays are done and so we come into the New Year exhausted or if it is the overwhelming feeling of another year without Zane, but grief has depleted me. I toss and turn at night with cramps and twitches to wake late and force myself out of bed feeling more like a zombie than a middle-aged woman.

When I share these feelings with my fellow grief warriors, they nod their head in agreement and understanding. Getting through the holidays is hard work. We are exhausted. And here we are. New Year, new goals, new hopes all wrapped around our never-ending pain. How do we refuel?

In grief, we are taught to be kind to ourselves. We are told that if all you did was get out of bed or just kept breathing, to consider it a win. That’s how tough mourning is. So, we hold on to that; it sets the bar low to feel some sort of hope that we can manage another year. We are told to take care of ourselves. A tea, a healthy meal, a walk in a park, a phone call to a good friend and a great book to read are essentials. Choose one, choose a couple…keep a list next to you of what makes you feel good.

And mind your day. Make sure it includes self-care. Make sure it isn’t too full, especially of things that drain you. Be aware that you are depleted and give yourself permission to be ok with that, holding on to the reality that this too can pass. Or at least subside for a bit.

January is winter and its cold weather, short days and holiday hangover is a tough month. It brings out the zombie in you. Know this and choose to treat yourself softly. The spring will be here soon, promising to bring a new energy that will help move us forward along our path. Take care. Of you.

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.”