Category: Shared Grief (Page 2 of 26)

With Grief’s Permission

November 30, 2025 / Mama Fish

As a kid growing up, I enjoyed American Thanksgiving. My cousins would travel to our home from Montana to join us. The holiday included a trip to Eddie Bauer, shopping for Canadian treasures to take back, like bacon, wieners, Tylenol 222 and Canadian beer. Dinner was the traditional turkey, with all the fixings. It was a favorite time for y’all. We still celebrate it, in remembrance of those days.

This year I noticed how different my favorite holiday has become. Empty. It is without the fanfare of my childhood. It lacks the full table (so many are missing, including my cousins). It lacks the sounds of chatter with a slight drawl. It lacks my mother’s kitchen, small with the window steamed from the heat of the oven and pots boiling. It lacks my father’s presence, rocking in his chair with the dog on his lap, cocktail on the side table, next to the ashtray with a cigarette always smoldering.

This holiday was always about family. The whole family. Not the small Canadian Thanksgiving family. No, American Thanksgiving was big, bold, loud and oh so energizing. It included everyone. It shouted we are together. It contained the sharing of what was happening, what was being planned, and always the latest antics of my crazy southern family. You went to bed that night so full of food, wine and laughter that you couldn’t sleep.

For some reason, this year, the happiness of yesteryear came through the front door, stomping around in my head like a full piece band. Perhaps it was because this year was like any other day. It started off rough, it included too much work, stress, mess and a rush home to ‘whip up’ dinner. It did not contain any extended family. It did not pause any ugly realities. The day had me so totally exhausted that I found myself having a hard cry before my daughter and husband came home to join me for dinner.

Grief. This Thanksgiving my grief sat at the head of the table. It reminded me of how old I am. How tired I have become. I countered it with the game of gratitude. I am aware and appreciative of all that I do have. Then my grief reached its hand across the table to hold mine and whispered to me, “it’s ok to cry for the many empty seats at your table.”

And with that, with grief’s permission, I leaned in, letting my broken heart mourn for all those that once sat at my table. Those who raised me, those I grew up with, for family that shared decades with me. And I cried for those who once sat at my table that I raised, mothered or mentored. For the kids that have sat around my table sharing their dreams, their gratitude at their young age. Including and especially, the twenty-six Thanksgivings I shared with Zane.

This year, I missed the physical presence of my family. All of them; those who join my table in heart and those who join my table in spirit. This year, I longed for the simple, naïve and joyful times of Thanksgivings past.

When Collective Grief Becomes Conflicted

November 23, 2025 / Mama Fish

I have been battling with conflicted grief lately. Conflicted because I feel one way but am expected to feel another way. It has me basking in a pool of self-reflection and personal judgement if I am behaving in the manner that honors my family’s needs without sacrificing my own.

Trying to not divulge too much, as the cause of this new grief is not my story to share, let’s just say that a family member has made decisions which has created a division of opinion and made gatherings uncomfortable if not impossible. And with the upcoming holiday season, I am anxious about where I should be and what I should do and how I should feel.

In the beginning, emotions were raw. Grief had just arrived and each of us handled it differently. I was accused of not being supportive enough as it appeared I wasn’t going to choose sides. With me, I saw we were all experiencing loss and thus my care-giving soul needed to hug everyone, which was frustrating for some.

Then, when enjoying tea with friends, one told me her story of how she was experiencing a very similar situation within her family. She shared how her heart was grieving and yet she felt she had to hide it or be ridiculed. As I listened to her, the actions of her family, the feelings for her person, the frustrations to be all to all, I found a kinship. Two mothers who feel that their grief must be ignored most days to ensure the happiness of everyone else.

Why as mothers do we feel this way. We are not told to do this and yet, we assign to ourselves an unspoken expectation that whatever road our family chooses to travel to support their needs is a road we must also travel with them. It is ludicrous as we know grief is a personal journey. But when there are layered reasons, tribulations, we want to be calm, to be comfort to their woes. How we feel becomes seemingly less relevant.

Moms don’t have strong boundaries, if any at all, when it comes to the wellbeing of their family. But we need them. Our heart is broken too. We are filled with grief and confusion and want to be present. For everyone. Can we create a space to support all those we love without judgement. Can we give each other the freedom to determine how one’s own grief is addressed. Can we be compassionate to the truth that we are all hurting. In different ways, for different reasons but we are all hurting. And can we give leniency to each other to be ourselves?

The answer needs to be yes. Perhaps the role of mother is only to start the process. An unsteady process that requires open communication, the setting aside of ego and the ability to put respect front and center. This doesn’t make collective grief any less ugly. Or easy. Hopefully, it will make room to reduce the conflict such grief carries; to explore collective pathways that will help comfort our grief. As a family and as individuals.

Who Will Cure My Grief?

November 9, 2025 / Mama Fish

As the ongoing parade of medical examinations unfold, I found myself at an appointment I didn’t expect this week. My oncologist, in my last appointment noticed there was mobility restriction in my right hand. He asked if I would be open to seeing an occupational therapist. I said yes. So, when the hospital called with a date to come in, I put on a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt assuming it would involve exercises of some kind. And it did. Just not for my hand.

The young therapist was wonderfully cheery, asking how I found the roads to the hospital that morning as she had found traffic heavy. I agreed and we went into her office, continuing to chat about the weather. She asked if I was open to her starting my assessment with a couple of questions. I nodded. Her first question was what day it is. Thursday. What Province are we in. I stared at her. Alberta. What is the year. My mouth dropped.

I said, “oh my God, this is not about my hand, is it? This is a cognitive test you are giving me.” She was surprised I didn’t know. She explained how my doctors had referred me to her as I had expressed to both, I was feeling more brain fog than usual. She was a behavioural therapist who specializes in dementia caused by the effects of cancer. She admitted that she was testing me from the start; the question about traffic told her I could drive myself. “Are you ok with this?” she asked. “Bring it on”, I said.

My mother passed of Alzheimer’s. There is a 50% chance I could develop it because of her genetics. Of all the health issues I am battling, my memory was not on my radar. Yes, my brain hurts and memory is shoddy but stress, grief, and the multi-tasking I do daily is a more probable answer than dementia. At least I hope so.

At the end of the day, I passed with flying colors. She felt confident there was no memory issue with me and would send her report to my well-meaning doctors. She also suggested a program I could enroll in on tips to keep your memory sharp as you age. I signed up for that.

My health is important, and I have agreed to many courses and tests as we explore the reason for my chronic pain and heart problems. The fact that my doctors are now signing me up to specialists and sending in prescriptions without my awareness is something I questioned. The answer is I don’t mind; I’d just like to be informed so that I can be prepared for the next step. I am grateful they are exploring every possibility.

I keep asking how the emotional state might trigger illness. What role does heartache play in the long-term wellbeing of a patient. You can’t quantify loss. Grief does not show up in a blood test. Doctors are trained to take care of the body. But how do you scan and mend the soul that is broken?

When I expressed this frustration to my nutritionist, she asked, “Have you ever taken a reprieve from your old normal to discover what a new normal needs to be for you?” “No”, I replied. She sighed, “Perhaps your continuing attempt to keep doing everything you did before your grief arrived has caused an emotional burnout”. And with that, I have a new appointment to be seen by a mental health specialist.

The Magic of Muertos

November 2, 2025 / Mama Fish

It’s Dia de los Muertos season again. One of my favourite celebrations because it offers the opportunity to invite our loved ones of the other realm to visit us. I started this tradition after Zane was killed and each year its power of connection is felt stronger.

The altar, or ofrenda, is a space in your home that you allocate to display pictures and mementos of loved ones who have passed. It is a place of honor not of sadness. Decorated pieces you can add to the ofrenda are sugar skulls, candles, marigolds, ribbons, all in bright colors. Closer to the day food and beverage favourites are added to the ofrenda. There is no right or wrong way to embellish this space.

This year I gathered with three other mourning mamas to paint sugar skulls for our altars. It was an enjoyable afternoon of chatter, bonding and sharing of the strength it takes to live in two worlds.

Adding to my ofrenda, my sister gave me a canine skeleton ornament, small and grinning in blue and green shades, to represent my sweet Tango. I added a bowl and filled it with toasted pumpkin seeds, a family favorite at Halloween.

My daughter looked at our ofrenda and commented how many pictures we have. Too many. Yes, too many to which I am forever sad about and yet, this is the time of year where I feel less grief. I feel more connected. I know that the veil is thin now and the signs are easier to appear. It is an exciting time to watch and be open to the messages coming from Heaven.

I have been told by a couple of my fellow grief warrior moms that they understood Muertos through my sharing of the reasons I do this so tried it in their own homes. They too experience the healing effects felt in choosing a place of honor, finding the perfect picture, layering the decorated items among the candles. It is therapeutic to care for those not living here in such a simple remembrance. It is a good mourning tradition. A moment we know is heard as we whisper into the night, “Se que todavia estas aqui.” (I know you are still here).

The Choice to be Sunshine

October 26, 2025 / Mama Fish

Recently a friend was sharing with me his discoveries about life, living with a brain tumor. The bigger picture is becoming clearer. He seems to tolerate the meaningless details less. He is frustrated by his doctors’ lack of optimism. “They could keep their opinion to themselves”. He worries about the next MRI, the next possible seizure. And he truly misses the sweets he had to cut out of his diet to keep the (new) diabetes under control. His days are different, and he says his energy is now used to enjoy his present more.

He said visiting his ‘old buddies’ has a bigger importance. A priority for quick connections that always includes telling them how much they have meant, still mean to him. He has a deeper love for his wife, appreciating how much she worries and how many more tasks are on her list because of his health. He revels in the company of his children and grandchildren. Having lost his own father years ago, he sees how busy he was then to not fully comprehend his father’s death. Now facing a similar destiny, he talks to his children, planting seeds of fatherly wisdom that he hopes will bring them comfort one day.

He is currently enhancing their yard and hot tub area, which has always been his place of solace. “I want to enjoy it all winter…” his voice trails off. “And you will”, I say. “You never know”, he replies. Day by day, we live in hope that we will see another sunrise. If only we could always grasp life like those who do when death is apparent.

How hard is this? To live each day fully. It seems impossible most times and I wince with envy at the ones who seem to have sunshine follow them effortlessly. My friend’s conversation kept me up all night. What was his secret? Somewhere, in the early morning, it dawned on me. Before his cancer diagnosis, he was sunshine. He still is sunshine. Just more intense. There is no secret. Sunshine is a choice. He chooses to be sunshine, to accept that the future is a gift yet to be opened, that to live in the now is where to seek joy.

And if ‘the now’ isn’t good enough, change it. I have watched him over the last year, change the things that he could no longer do into new things he can do. I have watched his faith grow deeper as he leans on his God as the source of his power. I watched him take control of possible challenges that would arise and solve them before they became bigger. I think the magic recipe to happiness is to know what you want and to go after it unapologetically.

He has encouraged me. The question, what do you want must be answered. He knows he wants a winter hot tub. Thus, it became clear what is needed to be done for that to happen. And the result will be a season of hot steamy soaks for my friend. How blissful is that!

I am going to hold a conversation with my grief. What does it need to be less rainstorm and more rainbow? And when the answer appears, I will chase it with gusto.

Moments of Thanksgiving

October 12, 2025 / Mama Fish

Thanksgiving, the annual event where family and friends gather to celebrate all that is good. It is a time to reflect on the experiences of the past year, being grateful for what we have received. “How lucky are we.” It is also a lonely time for those feeling not so lucky. This year, I have struggled and found myself questioning the meaning of the holiday.

For those in my close circle, life has been overshadowed by job loss, poor health, vanished love, and more death. All things no one wants to celebrate. And we are not a whoa-is-me clan. We rally, kick off the mud, and carry on. It just leaves us tired. And that shows hard this year. So, pulling out all my positive mantras and ‘happy camper’ attitudes, I challenged my summarization that this was a crappy year.

I have enjoyed family from afar that have come to visit us, filling my mind with new memories of laughter shared.

I am blessed to have travelled to Ireland with my daughter, husband and my son’s spirit. What an incredible trip that will always fill my heart with the joy of the experience of such a beautiful place. A bonus was my sweet friend, and her family joined to guide us through their homeland. And we all came back safe. Big thanks to Payton for making it happen.

I relished in my annual traditions. Going to Canmore, the Stampede, Mameo and summer drinks on roof top patios. I even enjoyed our tiny deck more this year, ensuring that cocktails became a daily pleasure in the afternoon sun.

Even alongside the tough moments, there have been glimmers of gratitude. Visits with a close friend who has a brain tumor; he continues to share his sense of humor with us, always managing to make us feel loved. My ‘bonus kids’ inviting us to happy celebrations and calling on me for support in rough times. How lucky am I to be able to be there for them. And they for me. Blessings sometime come wrapped up in the strength of connection to face adversity.

Attitudes of how we view life are empowering. It is the only control we have; the decision how we choose to look at what we are dealt with. The good, the bad and the ugly. Challenging times can dominate the better times, and we tend to wallow in a pool of self-claimed pity. It leads us away from the high vibrancy level we need to be our best for those here and those on the other realm. While I believe in having a deserving minute to pout…staying there is not an option for good health.

Perhaps that is my Thanksgiving lesson. Knowing that each moment is its own, I must live each moment, regardless of its content, accepting that the next moment will be different. Although this year has brought big sadness and new concerns, if I choose to thrive in the moments of Thanksgiving that were also served this year, I will find the strength I need.

May each of you hold close to the people and things that bring you peace, that give you joy. And may you receive blessings that remind you, even in our dark days, there are bright moments. Hang tight to those.

Using Music As a Time Machine

October 5, 2025 / Mama Fish

Recently I had the opportunity to look after a friend’s home while she was away. We kidded it might be a vacation for me. Although work was still on the calendar, I did rearrange things such that I had a lot of time alone. What I discovered was a missing piece to my serenity.

Only my family knew where I was staying, and they honored me with the solitude I was asking for. When I first arrived, my mornings began reading a chapter of my book and then a meditation in the sunshine of her east backyard. The only sound was the passing of cars. I spent the day working from her bright kitchen, taking time for lunch and finishing early to run errands or meet a friend for happy hour. I’d come home to the smells of the crockpot dinner I had organized earlier.

All this made me feel brave enough to experiment. I poured a glass of wine and asked Google to play Boston. I wasn’t sure if the music would trigger me when I was feeling so Zen-like and thought if it did, it didn’t matter. I was alone. As if my Angels were thinking the same thing, the first song to come over the speaker was “More than a feeling”-my favorite. It took me back to the summer of 1977 in Montana and I found myself dancing, singing the lyrics out loud. The songs took me back to the girl I used to be.

I enlisted this musical therapy each afternoon after that. Asking Google to play Journey, Cat Stevens, Shawn Phillips, Roberta Flack. The music of my youth. Before I got busy, old, forgotten. They were affirmations that rejuvenated something deep within. They carried laughter and tears with each tune.

And with each play, I remembered the messages that became the foundation of my beliefs, of what I wanted for earth, for life, for love. For myself. I couldn’t wait for the workday to end such that I would be alone, sitting and listening to the lessons taught to me in the early days. Before regrets, before tragedy.

“…The girl child of loveliness…woman, angry now… woman, of the land, …” I am back to my youth. I am wearing long flowing dresses of cotton, and gold bangles adorn my arm. I am fearless. I am confident. I am saving the underdog. I have purpose. The music of my youth flooded over me with happy memories of all that was possible. I am transferred to another time. And then the songs end, and I sit in the quiet and ask myself, “Where, oh God, where is she now?”

Music is powerful because it speaks to the soul. The lyrics are lessons, reminders, encouragement of who we are. Or were. Or want to be. When we are young, they are idealistic. Listening to the lyrics now, much older, the phrases cut deeper, shout out louder. That was the interesting discovery I made listening to music from my youth.

Songs can fill our heart with hope, joy or at the very least, reflection. Music was so important to me. It was my lifeline in times when I was struggling and felt that no one was listening. Zane loved music. It was his lifeline also. Maybe for the same reasons. Maybe for different reasons. I can add that to my list of topics to talk to him about when we are together again.

What I do know is that his love for music, he shared with me. I get how and why it is the best free therapy available. I am glad he consumed it. His love for music was why it has always been my biggest trigger. In my grief, I was forgetting that it is also therapy. Therapy that I didn’t know I needed until I was singing along with the memories of my own youth.

The Art of Compromise

September 28, 2025 / Mama Fish

In the beginning of my grief, I rallied. There were too many people that were drowning, and my motherly instincts were to put my own grief on the back burner to support those I loved. This was comfortable for me, putting my needs aside for others is a life-time practice. Thus, that is how I handled my grief. It can wait. I will deal with it when I am alone. The trouble was, I was never alone.

As time pushed all of us ahead, my grief morphed into the health challenges that occupy so much of my time now, ironically having me face my own grief better than I have been doing and putting up new boundaries that are requiring all of us to get used to.

As grievers, we know that grief is a path we walk together but it is also a solo journey. Each person must handle their grief in the way that best comforts them. This can cause struggles when one person expects the other to respond in the same way, but to which doesn’t work for both.

As I become more aware and thus more vocal about what I need, I am finding that it is not what some of my loved ones want and push back happens. I have had recent conversations with family and friends of what they are expecting of me that conflict with my new awareness. I find myself at a crossroads; do I continue on my healing path, or do I step off to ensure that they are ok. The answer is not an easy one.

So, compromise comes to the table. A conversation around what the individual needs are. An agreement that there might not be an understanding of these needs, but an acceptance of trust that the needs are valid. Compromise must be fair and comfortable for all parties.

I am learning that compromise takes work. It requires putting ego aside and letting love lead the conversation. It requires individual time to process “can this work with my needs” before agreeing and then creating unjudgmental space to try it. With each new happening, compromise needs to be reviewed and adjusted. Above all, it requires respect; the affirmation that we are each hurting in different ways, for different things. If this can be shared, then peace is achieved. And grief is supported.

The word compromise is beautiful. A Latin origin that means “a mutual promise”. When said that way it sounds less commanded or mechanical. It might bring an attitudinal change; instead of saying, “I have to compromise…” to say, “I have a mutual promise.” And that may be all we need to heal.

A Mother’s Last Message

September 21, 2025 / Mama Fish

Over the summer, I had the honor of supporting a young woman whose mother was dying. It was a misdiagnosis a year ago. When things got worse, and her mom ended up in hospital, they were told she only had a few weeks before cancer would take her away. A blanket of disbelief wrapped them up and I was called and asked for help.

I knew this young woman as a friend of Zane’s who frequented our home over the high school years. She is brilliant, beautiful and carries a strength I have witnessed grow within her for decades. She has pursued life fearlessly. She faced her mother’s fate the same way. She left her home in BC to come back and take the role of caregiver, advisor and advocate to her mother’s needs. She balanced her feelings to support the emotions of her grieving family. And in the end, she ensured that her mother’s final wishes to leave this earth from her home, surrounded by family and friends was granted.

At her request, I attended the funeral. I had not met her mother in all the years that her daughter was part of our lives. I felt a bit like an imposter, coming to a funeral of a woman I did not know. But I knew her daughter and I had met her other two children, and I wanted to hold them in their darkest hour. The celebration of life reflected who her mother was in an afternoon of laughter and tears, leaving me with the understanding of how joyful her mother was and an awareness of where the strength was born.

As I listened to the tributes, I thought to myself, they speak of the love of a mother. The commonalities of motherhood; of how she created a home that had an open-door policy and within their home a sense of festivity at any time of the year. Especially Christmas for her family. I heard of how she had balanced work, to be home for her children, a task that was not easy. I heard how she found solitude in the forests and how nature soothed her. I’m watching the video of her life as wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend and I thought to myself, she is extraordinary. She has taken the role of wife and mother and by her dedication, I am sitting in a room of people who already miss her.

Each celebration of life carries a message. Yes, it involves how wonderful the deceased was and the impact they had with their own perspective of how life should be lived. This celebration reminded me of how blessed I am to be in the role of mother, of its importance to so many. However, what truly hit home was her last message to her family. Her belief, that was recorded and played for all of us to hear. She said, “I want to be a part of all the special events. Even if it can’t be in the physical, it’ll be in the non-physical. I love you all…” And that message, her family will cling to for the rest of their lives. What a gift to believe that love overcomes death. It does not separate us. And what a bigger gift to pass that belief onto your children.

Discovering the Matrix of My Soul

September 14, 2025 / Mama Fish

I arrived in Ireland feeling so sick from the overnight plane ride that I could hardly wait to get to the hotel room and crash. My family found me there hours later and described me as comatose. Not a great start to a trip of a lifetime, but then again, we know I am not a good traveler.

Albeit a rough first day, the trip was everything and more than I thought it could be. The country is gorgeous, the people are friendly, the rumors of how much drinking happens are all true. We stayed in a hotel in downtown Dublin so walking to shops, bars and restaurants was easy. It was delightful. My favorite part of it was the awareness that our clan all live there in some other life.

It was uncanny how many people we saw that made us take a double look to know they were not our family and friends from Canada. We are shopping in Penny’s, and I see Sandra heading into the make-up section. Before my brain could remind me that Sandra (aka sweetie) passed two years ago, I shouted out, “Sweetie, over here!” This person was a carbon copy. She wasn’t the only one there. We saw family and friends that are no longer here on earth, and some that are still here. It became a game of who we would see next. We agreed that Ireland is our clan’s serene matrix.

A highlight for me had to be the Jameson Distillery tour. We went on our last day. We took ‘the dude’. We went because Zane would love this tour. I wanted to find a whiskey I can enjoy better than the original one we must drink in his honor. The distillery is surrounded by apartments overlooking the courtyard. I smiled. This is where Zane would be living. The energy of this place had me in tears from the first step inside the door. The tour itself was divine.

When learning of the process and history of Jameson & Son, we were told that each bottle label has the phrase “Sine Metu”. It means without fear. Zane’s friend had taught him “wo bu pa” to which Zane shared with his friends. He loved the phrase, which is about “I am not afraid.” The similarity of the Irish phrase had our jaws drop.

At the end of the tour, we shopped for souvenirs and a bottle to bring home. I was drawn to a brand of Jameson’s called Method & Madness. It was another term Zane used a lot. A young woman who worked there came up beside me and I asked about this brand. She told me that it was the whiskey that changed her mind about all whiskeys. She first tried it seven years ago. Her favorite is Hazelnut. It has been seven years since I have held Zane. Hazelnut was Zane’s coffee favorite, as is mine. I was sold. And then she said her name was Rachel (the name of a girl that Zane had loved deeply). I threw my arms around her. She had no idea why I was hugging her. Why I was crying. She just hugged me back and said, “I promise you will enjoy this”.

Ireland brought us together with friends who showed us their homeland. It gave us glimpses of loved ones who are no longer with us, but reassurance that they are not gone. It gave us a connection to our own roots, our heritage and why we live with the attitude that there is always time for “one more shot”! This trip gave me the comfort that for each of us, there is a liminal place where we will be rejoined with those we love and miss. For me, it is Ireland.

Gratitude goes to my daughter who insisted I take this trip with her as a gift from her brother and her. Apparently, it is something they had wished for, to which she says she can now strike off her own bucket list.