Category: Shared Grief (Page 18 of 23)

Waiting for the Answer of How

July 11, 2021 / Mama Fish

Recently I was honored to have the opportunity to sit and listen to a fellow mom who lost her son earlier this year. When the police came to tell us about Zane, they began by saying, “We are here on behalf of Zane”. My (new) friend was told, “His death is under investigation”.

There are many levels of grief. When Zane was killed we were told what happened. There was no question of how he passed. The coroner’s report came back relatively fast with what we had been told in black and white. We had those awful answers and knowing the cause of death, our questions became focused on the why and what if. We had the answer of how.

How is the one first answer you need; the manner to which my child left this earth. When you don’t have an answer, grief is put on a whole other level. All the other questions arrive and are complicated because you can’t begin to comprehend when you don’t have any idea of what happened. It is sheer madness exaggerated.

As we sat in the sun sharing stories of our children, of how the police came, of how our other children found out…we shared tears and a few giggles, creating a bond that ‘others wouldn’t get’. There is comfort found in shared grief. We talked about how we honor our child and what we do for ourselves to make it through the days. Grief is a solitary journey. Yet when we share our journey with those on the same path, we discover similar happenings and we begin to understand we are not totally alone. This awareness brings a silent strength to face our grief better. And she has to confront this grief, while waiting to hear what happened to her child. That takes extra strength.

I admire her beauty. She carries her head high and lives with a trust that the answers will come. And while she waits, she puts one foot in front of the other with her son as her driving force, wanting to honor him and do right by him. She is a noble example of how one can practice good mourning.

When No One Knows Your Truth

July 4, 2021 / Mama Fish

At our new place, no one knows of our truth. No one here is aware that we have ‘lost a child’. One neighbor, who has seen Payton come by a few times, asked if I only have a daughter. I said, “oh no, we have a son too”. It is the truth even though the assumption would be he is alive. And that is what I like about here.

There is some sort of peace that comes with people not knowing my story. It doesn’t include the apologies or misguided questions and comments. Grief, even when shared with friends, has a solemn energy. The energy is different with the illusion that our life is normal, even though it is far from normal. And it isn’t that I have lied; it is that no one has asked any questions that I would have to share our story in order to answer them.

And then it happened. We were taking Tango out for a walk and our neighbor had a friend over. The friend recognized us. Her daughter dated Zane for years and actually lived with us for almost two years before they broke up. They stayed friends and I took her in as my own. To this day she keeps in touch and is like a big sister to Payton. The mother hugs us; we have not seen her since long before the crash. She tears up but says nothing about Zane. I am relieved. We comment on how long it’s been, how fabulous we all look and then we leave to walk the dog.

I told Jon I was a bit saddened. We know she will tell our neighbor what happened. My bubble is no longer and my new community will know of the hell we live with. I am not sure why this bothers me. I have no illusion of what my reality is. Perhaps what I have enjoyed is the fantasy of others not knowing and therefore thinking that my boy just hasn’t come over yet for anyone to see. This unawareness was ok for me; it was an unexplainable cushion for my grief. It was a feeling that I will miss.

I will carry on, anticipating the “I just heard” to which I will reply (yet again), “thank you, yes, it is unimaginable….”

Grief and Gratitude

June 27, 2021 / Mama Fish

I kept a gratitude journal for over a decade. I taught my children to do the same. In some small way, recording five to ten things of what you were grateful for that day seems to put things into a better perspective. When you are grieving, gratitude is difficult.

As we unpack in our tiny condo, I came across a journal of Zane’s. The first entry, he had written, “today, one day becomes day one” and each day he had written 10 things he was grateful for. His family, his friends were at the top of the list on many days. Some days he was grateful for a social day on a summer patio and other days his gratitude included having a home and a thick woolen blanket to snuggle in. What I enjoyed about this journal was that he counted his blessings and his life was full of big and small experiences that brought him comfort and joy.

He had a months’ worth of writings in this journal. I pondered ripping the pages out and giving the journal away. I am trying to create more space in this small home; every item needs a place and a purpose to stay. I would keep his writings, which would take up less space than the whole journal would. And then I remembered what I am learning; if you want to see signs, you have to be open to them.

I have not been very grateful lately. I am consumed with move, work and complicated grief. Actually, I have become quite good at complaining. Zane was always telling me, “you have to do with joy” and that, quite frankly, has been lost in the last years.

So I took finding this journal, specific to recording gratitude, as a sign. Here is my boy reminding me that I have a whole pile of things to be grateful for…and I better start writing them down daily to refresh my attitude. I am picking up where his last page ended. And each day, I will list what I am grateful for.

Zane, you will always be top of my list. Thank you.

Did you get my change of address?

June 20, 2021 / Mama Fish

The night before possession of our house, we gathered to say good bye. It was quiet and somber. We walked through each room, sharing stories of favorite memories. Tango went off into the yard, Jon and Payton went upstairs and I was left in the basement alone for a moment.

I sat on the floor of Zane’s empty bedroom. I closed my eyes and I asked him to join me. I thought of all the conversations we had in this room; of all the plans he made to change up this room at his next birthday. I thought of all the parties he had with friends and the many sleepless nights at his desk studying for the next exam. This was his suite we called it. It was his place. It is the room I will miss most of all the rooms in this house.

We gathered outside, next to the tree that Zane had planted in grade 3, each of us with a shot of Jameson’s to toast our home, the memories made here and to Zane. And with that we closed the doors and went back to our new abode.

When I first found this condo, through a dream with Zane, it was to be my healing place. I am not sure what that meant; I just knew that coming here would be of value to my mourning. Every night I would pull up the real estate listing and fantasize about living there. I would be with the dog. My husband was not usually a part of it; grief is a solitary journey. I had this little place decorated in my mind. I had each of my beloved possessions placed perfectly in its tiny spaces. It brought me comfort to play this game after a long tiring day.

Alas, here I am. Reality is that I share this space with Jon. Reality is that many, many compromises were made and saying goodbye to several beloved pieces was not a choice. I am so grateful to my sister and daughter for ‘adopting’ the things that I could not bear depart with but had no room for here.

I listen to friends and family and I hear that they are hopeful I will heal here. This has forced me to move Zane’s things, albeit they are still with me or in storage. The move puts me in a new place that has no reminders of all the memories I cherished at the old home. And yet those did come here with me; memories do not have a fixed address. They move easy.

I found solace in being in the place my son grew up in and knew. Grief does not live in a house; it lives in your heart. And although I am comfortable and enjoying the reduced work that a small space brings, my grief is as big as it has always been. In fact, there is a new emotion attached to my grief; the fear that I will not have the same feelings of connection with my son that I had there.

So I ask for signs to let me know he has my change of address. Sitting on my new patio, in the quiet sunny afternoon, a bunny comes through the complex and hops right up to our place. It sat still, looking up at me and not moving. Even the dog noticed but stayed quiet. I whispered, “Thank you Zane, and keep the signs coming.”

Living with the Dot

June 13, 2021 / Mama Fish

When we ignore our grief, when we distract ourselves or refuse to acknowledge it, the invisible pain of these actions create havoc worse than facing it in the first place. At least that’s what the experts tell us.

My therapist drew a dot, in the middle of a piece of paper. She said this is your grief, the first moment your grief arrived. As she said this she kept pen on paper continuing to press in the shape of the dot until it bore a hole through the paper. I liked her analogy. Yes, my grief has ripped a hole in my being.

Then she drew a small circle from this centre, explaining this is time, the days that go on. She said; “when something happens, a memory or just breathing, you are drawn back to the centre”. She drew the line back to the dot. She continued drawing circles around the dot, each circle of time extending a little further away from the dot but with lines going back to the dot. This illustrated that triggers never quit but, with time, it takes longer for the line from that outward circle to reach back to the dot. I think it was to be a map of realistic hope. If I believed this, then yes, I would always have grief, I would always have triggers bringing me right back to that centre of pain but with time it would lessen.

I have had moms who have lost a child decades ago tell me ‘the pain never goes away but it does get softer’. When you are new in your grief this sounds impossible. Even now, 2 ½ years later, there is no sign of fewer triggers or the intensity of them. Grief teaches you patience.

This is where ‘embrace the pain’ comes in. If we don’t face this centre dot, this boiling point of grief, if we don’t mourn, we become stuck in ‘the dot’. If we are stuck, then we are unable to experience the lighter moments that occur in the lines circling our grief. And that is where we need to be to live our lives and fill our purpose; with grief as a part of which we are now but new things brought in to give us moments that are (hopefully) less painful.

How this looks and how fast this happens is an individual thing. The point is to strive towards this. Good mourning is learning to live with ‘the dot’.

When Graduation is Taken Away

June 6, 2021 / Mama Fish

Last year, and again this year, high school graduation is different. Mothers rant about how their child is ‘ripped off’ of a graduation that was to be a gathering of classmates and friends to celebrate. This grates on the nerves of some fellow grief warriors; the retort is at least their child is here to graduate. Death robbed us of this.

Zane took University in stride. He wanted to ensure he had a life balance so planned his courses accordingly stretching a 4 year degree into 7. He purposely chose to have all his favorite electives completed in the last year to finish with a slow and enjoyable end. He was to graduate in June of 2019. He was killed in August of 2018.

It was the first action I took in honor of my son. He was just a few electives short of getting his degree. A letter came from the President of the University that included his condolences and recognizing that our son was on the Dean’s list for his efforts. He mentioned a posthumous degree and included the name of the staff member that could give me more information. I called her right away.

It was no easy feat; in fact it took months of trips to Court and the University to make this happen. I was relentless and would not give up which included a meltdown in the Court bathroom (after application rejection number two) and the support of Nicole, the University staff member who pulled me back on to the ledge several times with extended deadlines and reassuring phone calls. She was one of my Angels.

In the end, I gave the honor of crossing the stage to my husband. It was a Father’s Day gift. Our family sat front row, watching Jon step onto the stage and shake hands, and accept Zane’s degree. We took pictures there of us and of Ryan, his friend and study-buddy; they were supposed to graduate together. And in a sense they did. Then we came home to share a quiet, reflective drink in my boys’ honor.

So, I get the frustration of any graduate who is entitled but can’t be in a collective group and shout to the heavens “we did it”. Graduation is a rite of passage that was earned from years of stress, late nights and hard work. How we envision it should be and how sometimes it actually is can be sad. It can be downright heart-wrenching. This is the only time that this graduation will happen and the graduates are robbed of it due to something out of their control. It is a loss.

This understanding brings a bit of compassion for the mothers who share on social media the angst of their child not being able to celebrate in a fashion they had expected. They are reacting to loss. And as one mother who has experienced the biggest loss of all, oh, how I get it.

When Solitude is Absent

May 30, 2021 / Mama Fish

With my current busy schedule of work, move and family, I have not had any time alone. I know when I am this busy, I really need to practice healthy habits, so diet, sleep and little or no wine currently is my status quo. And yet I seem to be getting worse. I blamed this on the stress and then I realized I have had no solitude.

Solitude is a buzz word. We are told that solitude brings you clarity and calm; it is the key ingredient to mindfulness. When you live with grief, it is much, much more than a thing to try. It is essential to keeping a balance between grief and complex grief.

So often in our grief we don’t want to think, and therefore taking time out is not a desirable option. But it is a tool every grief warrior needs. Spending time alone is not about being an introvert or extrovert. It is not about being lonely; it is about being alone. There is a big difference.

Solitude can be practiced in a multitude of ways. You can meditate, write, walk, read a book or take photos. It can be time spent on a hobby like sewing or scrapbooking. It can be time set aside to quietly honor our loved one. It does not take up your whole day; twenty minutes or an hour is all some might require. The important thing is to unplug and make solitude a part of your routine.

When we take the time out of each day to be alone, it enables us to quiet our brain and let what needs to come into our thoughts arrive without interruption. This practice gives you time to feel, to face and reflect on your grief. Also importantly, it gives you time to check in with yourself. What do you need right now to help you through the day, the upcoming week? It gives you time to plan your next steps to ensure you are doing what is best for you and yours, including our children across the veil.

Some moments of solitude can be painful, but like a grief spurt we know these moments are now part of our life. And the storm will pass, we keep breathing. What I find is that the more I take time to be alone, the higher my vibration rises. It brings clearness and a feeling of refreshed strength to carry on. And that is good mourning.

Pictures of Loss

May 23, 2021 / Mama Fish

Grief comes back to haunt you when you move. As we come to the final round of preparing to leave the home we raised our children in, I am in awe of the endless amount of sentimental clutter that I have no room for. I have my grandmothers, my mothers and my own china. I have blankets and linen from aunts, grandparents and great grandparents. I have furniture that my grandfather made, my grandmother cared for, my father made and my mother loved. I realize I have been blessed to be the caregiver of their valued items for so many years. And then there are all of Zane’s things.

Each item holds not one but many cherished stories of its history and its purpose. Each item has been with me for over 30 years…some since I was a child. Giving up the material things we love brings grief with it. I am saddened that I no longer have the capacity to keep these things and somehow, because of this, I feel like I am failing those I love who have moved on and left me with their personal possessions. This is about my son, about my parents, about all those I have lost whose material items stay with me.

This is a new grief I had not experienced before. This grief is a slap-in-the-face sort of feeling that there is a concrete end. In my new place, these things will never be. Only the memory of them will be. And that brings me back to the centre of my grief around losing not just the items, but the person attached to these items.

The imprinted energy will be gone. The physical touch will be gone. The visual sight…wait, can I keep the visual sight? And then it hit me. I wrote about this (Grief Hits home); it was a suggestion to take pictures of each thing I must ‘leave behind’. What if I have a collection of photos (at the end of the day) of all the cherished items that when I am missing them, I can look at the picture and see their glory? So, I have been doing that. I have taken a picture of each item that I will not be taking with me.

Yes, I am strategically taking what I know I can’t leave behind without regret. And then there are some that I am leaving behind that I hope I won’t regret. (But I will have their picture). And then, there is still some, and probably too many, but these things I will bring with me. And in my new place, in some future time, I will have the ability to release them to their new life. Just not now.

The items that I have said good-by to, I have found comfort when I find them a new loving home. My Aunt’s beloved dresser is getting a face lift (thank you Karen) and will find a new home. The island sold to the single father who said he was going to use it to do his rice wraps on for his children brought comfort to me. The young woman who took Zane’s bathroom shelf said “it is the piece I have been looking for to fit in my home”. That made me smile.

Each of these items has a picture which honors them by creating a scrapbook of sorts of all of them that will include their moving away story. And with that choice, I am finding some peace.

Once a Mother, Always a Mother

May 9, 2021 / Mama Fish

There is something innate about being a mother. It is a knowing of the responsibility bestowed upon us to care and protect this tiny spirit. And as it grows, our life is filled with sleepless nights and worry and a million decisions of how best to nurture this growing human being. Life revolves around our children. Our identity becomes, “I am mother”.

When your child passes, your whole being is shattered, including the answer to, “am I still a mother?” I no longer have a child that I can physically hold or care for. I no longer have a child that I can snap pictures of or dream future experiences for. All the factors about being a mother, as society has defined a mother to be, are gone.

My fellow grief warrior moms struggle with the questions asked by strangers, “do you have children? How many?” Our angst comes from how much do we want to share and how much can we share without breaking down? We must remember, once a mother, always a mother.

I believe that the role of mother is one bestowed upon us for OUR lifetime. And therefore, until my last breath I am a mother. I have welcomed into my home and my heart several kids I call my own; I gave birth to two children. I relish in the role of mother. It is a position of care and influence and love. It takes work, fret and prayer to carry out this role. The benefits are many, out numbering the heartaches. Including the biggest heartache, death.

When asked would you be a mother if you knew losing your child would be part of the plan, the answer is a strong, hell yes. I gave birth to Zane. I am his mother. I will always be his mother. Death does not change that. What it does do is change being his mother from a traditional role into something new. That is the hard part.

How do we mother our child’s spirit? We honor them. We protect their memory. We say their name. We believe that they are still with us and we learn new ways to reach out to them. We celebrate what should have been, like holidays and milestones and everyday favorites. We are their mother.

“Do you have children?” The answer, for me, is “Yes, I have two”. I will always have two.

A Day For Bereaved Mothers

May 3, 2021 / Mama Fish

I learned last year that the Sunday before Mother’s Day was titled Bereaved Mother’s Day. This day is specifically for mothers who have lost a child. I am not sure what the point of this is. It singles us out as who we now are but there is no fanfare or card or acknowledgement protocol. I did receive one text from a friend that she was thinking of me today. Did she know? Some of my fellow mothers have no idea this day exists. Should there not have been a memo we received telling us about this day that focuses on moms who have lost a child? Should there not be some sort of awareness campaign about this day? About the significance of losing a child?

My “mother’s day” went about like any other day. I made brunch for Jon and a friend as they brainstormed a new business idea. I did the laundry and cleaned the house. We went and picked out flooring for the condo. The kids came over to do their laundry and tell us about their weekend. I’m about to make dinner. And not a word about today was mentioned. They don’t know.

This is no fault of theirs; there is no blame about this. In fact, if such a holiday is to be, perhaps we, the grieving mothers, should be claiming this day a bit louder. Maybe this is a day to stop and recognize where I am and why I am. Maybe it is a day for us to share our pain or at least how we are feeling. Or maybe, it is just the way it is supposed to be. Maybe today is about taking time to be alone and think of your child that has left this realm. Maybe it is a time to reach out to other grieving mothers with a hug. Maybe it is a time to cuddle up and cry. And maybe this is good enough as the next Sunday is the official Mother’s Day to which accolades and flowers and phone calls will arrive celebrating motherhood.

I am just confused with this holiday. Do we need one special day that recognizes us as a grieving mother? Is that not what we are every day? I feel that Bereaved Mother’s Day has the same undertones as grief. It is a day that people don’t know what to do with. It is confusing; it is not really shared or promoted. It is awkward and ambiguous and personal. Just like grief.

To my fellow grief warriors, those mother’s who, like me, get up each day and continue to live and care for others, in spite of the pain and anguish of such loss….big hugs to each of you. And a reminder, that we are in this together.