Category: Shared Grief (Page 3 of 21)

Celebrating the One and Only Kirk

May 26, 2024 / Mama Fish

It was as good as a funeral can get. Purposely planned to be held on his birthday. I like the irony of having the funeral on the person’s birthday. We did the same for Zane. It is Shakespearean poetry to celebrate the person who passed on the same day they came to earth. A sort of full circle, the cycle continues vibe.

The kids planned a party with all their father’s wishes included. And then some. They made him proud. The room was filled with family and friends, reunited with a drink in hand and lively conversations. Stories of our friend Kirk were shared, and tearful speeches and a video that captured each stage of his life. “I know dad is here,” his son said, “I can feel him”. We could all feel him. His spirit was tangible.

As we danced on the patio, shouting out the lyrics of “Do you believe in love”, to the heavens, each of us were taken back and held in the love we have shared with Kirk. Friend, father, grandfather, brother, husband…this man lived a full life. The proof was in the faces of the many incredible people he connected us to in life and death.

Kirk’s example of a life well lived, including his own personal tribulations, is why the room was filled with more laughter than tears. He was about “never give up”. He was about embracing every experience as a learning tool to become a better, stronger person. He was about “…and then some”. These are attributes we can adopt for ourselves in honor of him.

Whatever you want to call them, funerals, celebrations, memorials, they are all meant to be about goodbye. They are supposed to be designed to offer closure. And yes, we hold space to remember and honor our loved ones. And yes, it is about acknowledging our pain that we can no longer hear their voice or feel their touch. But it does not have to be about goodbye.

I believe that these gatherings are not about letting go but rather about holding on differently. How do we move forward with them in spirit. What promises are we making to continue to honor them past this day. What about them will we carry within us as we continue living here. How will we say their name. When we gather to say goodbye, let’s not call it an end but rather a new beginning of how we will continue their story. “And then some…”

Kirk’s last gift of this day, to the people he loved, came from a cloud of soft thunder that reminded all of us “Our loved ones are never truly gone.” They sit beside us. Love never dies.

Breaking Bread in the Park

May 19, 2024 / Mama Fish

With spring here, I am encouraging my family, the youth I serve and myself to get out and enjoy the benefits of a mindful walk. These are unplugged moments that Zane taught me to take. He took them often, day or night, as needed. I tried, after Tango had passed, but they were just too painful. Each step reminded me of my little companion. With each slow and meditative walk, we enjoyed the sun, the park sounds and the sights of spring coming to visit. Tango especially enjoyed the smells, we called his ‘pee mail’. I thought it might be easier to pick one spot and sit, so I bought a Tim Horton’s meal and had lunch at the park bench where we usually started our walks. I shared this experience in a letter to Zane.

Dear Zane,

I took a Tim Horton soup and one honey glazed Timbit to the reservoir to have lunch with Tango’s spirit. I cried as soon as I got there. I have not been at this spot since I took him just before he passed. As I took the lid off my soup, a crow joined me. Or maybe it was a raven. Either way I found it funny that this very large bird thought he might share my bowl of soup. I took the pieces of chicken out of my soup. I would always feed them to Tango. So, I threw them on the ground for the bird. He would tentatively hop over to the piece of chicken, look around, and then grab it. I left one piece on the picnic table to see if he would come up and he did! It was neat to be sitting in the park sharing a bowl of hot soup with this bird.

I went back to the car to get the Timbit and shared that with the bird. He flew to another tree and squawked. It sounded like “thank you” but maybe it was “over here” as another bird from nowhere showed up to join him. The two flew back to the picnic bench as if he was showing the other what he found. They shared the last piece of donut. When they flew away, he left me one little feather, from his chest, which I took home.

I realized that these little feathers I have might be from the soft chest of these birds; the location of their heart, as if I was receiving just that. A little piece of their heart. My feathers are from you, a little piece of your heart found in the small soft feather of a bird. Neat. I will do more visits there. And hopefully more lunches with my feathered friend.

Tango used to love birds and they often would fly around us on our walks or hop along beside Tango who was too busy sniffing to notice. That lunch opened my thinking to the possibilities that the signs we look for, and receive, from our loved ones might be more connected than we know. Their meaning might be deeper than we understand. Did this bird just come to scavenge my lunch? Possibly. But then why did he come so close; we shared a picnic bench together. How or why did he leave behind one tiny feather?

Yes, it is true, we can read anything we wish into the incidents we experience, and why not? I enjoyed contemplating why this bird was so friendly and how his little feather souvenir was left in the spot he perched as we shared my lunch. I believe that each experience we have has multiple levels of meaning and the truth goes past the obvious or the science. And it is this belief that brings me peace that both my son and my dog orchestrated a beautiful afternoon for me to ‘break bread’ with another soul.

To Sir Arthur, With Love

May 12, 2024 / Mama Fish

I met Arthur in the early morning as I walked Tango. He was the resident gardener. An Englishman with poise, soft-spoken with a love for his friends, animals, and nature. We had many conversations about living, loss and declining health that comes with age. Arthur took life in stride and catered quietly to his passions each day.

When I noticed that Arthur’s car had not moved for a period, I enquired with a neighbor if he was on vacation. No, he was not. He had been diagnosed with throat cancer and was receiving home care. He may be up to visitors soon, I was told. I asked if they could let me know when as I would love to speak to him. In later weeks, I noticed Arthur, dressed in proper attire including cap, shuffled out to his friend’s car to be picked up. I smiled. I would be able to see him now.

It was my husband that informed me Arthur passed and the funeral had taken place. I had no idea. I had hopes he was recovering. I was sure I was going to visit him. None of that was possible now. I wrote Arthur a letter.

Dear Arthur:

I am thinking of you. Your family and friends are in my heart and my prayers. Can I share a few things with you?

I truly appreciated meeting you when we moved into this building. You were the friendly person who loved my dog and took the time to ask how I was. I enjoyed our brief conversations; I looked forward to them as I walked Tango.

At one point you were fighting the powers-to-be that you were alive as they had you recorded as dead. I laughed at the absurdity of such a notion; the man I knew was vibrant and youthful, although a bad knee, was very much alive! I had hoped that the determination you had then to set things straight, continued to overcome your battle with cancer.

I appreciated the care you gave our gardens. I know of the time (and money) you put into the flower beds, ensuring that all of us could enjoy the beauty of nature. Tango respected your work, never peeing on them, but always stopping to smell ‘Arthur’s Garden’. I will always think of those flower beds as yours. I am grateful that your successors care for them now, but in my mind, they are your legacy.

I appreciated your value of friends. How you would wake up every morning to walk your friend’s little dog, even when you were in pain. I enjoyed your grin when you would tell me you were going out for dinner with friends. Seeing you was always a bright moment in the day, and I am sorry, for us, that your smile and warm touch is now missing.

You are very dear, Sir Arthur. I just wanted to share with you how I feel about you, wanted the chance to tell you thank you for being such a wonderful neighbor. And that I hope your soul plan includes a new adventure of gardens, dinners, and puppy dogs for you to enjoy.

Take care sweet Arthur, sending a hug to the heavens, just for you.

Arthurs passing is a reminder that we do not know, will never know, the timing the Universe has for each of us. Seize the moments, as the present is all we truly have.

Honoring Bereaved Mother’s Day

May 5, 2024 / Mama Fish

I had this notion to make Cinco de Mayo a big deal this year. I thought of having multiple dishes with festive décor hung and friends coming over to enjoy all of it with me. I thought it was time to start my own celebrations of fun and frolic. Then grief came and a busy-catch up schedule and the energy to do anything related to a party went out the front door. Suddenly I just wanted to be alone. My sweet daughter, feeling much the same way, spoke to me about why don’t we just have one drink as a small family and spend the night in our own homes. I agreed. What I didn’t tell her was that this particular day fell on Bereaved Mother’s Day.

Bereaved Mother’s Day falls on the Sunday before Mother’s Day. It is a day where mothers who have lost a child can gather to share stories and the pain that accompanies such. I just thought I wanted to be distracted from the reminder “we” have a special day that shouts, “you lost a child!” And yet, the closer this Sunday came, the more I felt like being in a park with a camera talking to Zane than I did hosting another loud party. I am starting to listen to my grief and make space for her to be acknowledged.

We are told, early in our grief, by those we seek counsel from and well-intended friends, that you must have the freedom to say no. We must listen to our pain and not show up if it is too much or change plans if it becomes too much. It is a boundary building skill each grief warrior learns. And yet, as time goes on with grief, others expect more of you. “Get on with it” and thus, just about the time we are learning to feel our mood and act accordingly, we are then told we should be done with that feeling. It is ironic.

This year, my feelings for what I thought I wanted with a Mexican holiday and what I ended up feeling, I honored. It was a relief. I felt less stress not having to create an event where I needed to be smiling and hospitable. I thought I wanted that. I thought I was ready. But this time, and perhaps because it is Bereaved Mother’s Day, I changed my mind. I changed the plans. My (usually social) family agreed. I am guessing on some level they needed the same and I, the matriarch, let everyone off the hook by choosing what I thought only I needed. The party was cancelled; everyone is feeling a little less pushed. And the pinatas can come out another day.

So, a message to my fellow grieving mothers; take today to pause. Listen to what your grief is asking of you and take today to honor that. It is the one day set aside for us to do just that, and we should take advantage of it. I mean, who is going to argue with you telling them I am celebrating me, as a mom, who has lost a child?

Bring your sweet loved one into the day. Speak to them on a quiet walk. Do an act of kindness on their behalf. Put a picture of them on your social media with a note of gratitude. Yes gratitude. We are the lucky ones who had this amazing soul choose us to be their mother. We cared for them, loved them, raised them, only to have them leave. This is the day to remind yourself how much strength we have within to continue being ourselves here and now, in our many roles, but today, honoring our role as a mother to a child of the other realm. This is a day to celebrate, quietly, like the breeze that whispers to the meadow, I am always with you, my sweet child. And I am grateful that I am always to be your mother.

The Train Home

April 28, 2024 / Mama Fish

On one of our visits with our friend Kirk, he shared how he was troubled by a dream he had. He was on a train about to leave for a trip but the people he loved were standing on the platform and not going with him. I asked how that was upsetting and he said it was because he was alone on the train. And I wondered if this was the murky straddle between staying on earth and leaving for the other realm. So, I asked if he was afraid to be alone and he nodded yes.

I held his hand and tried to offer some comfort. I told him that he was not alone, he would never be alone. I said, “did you see us, all your family & friends, gathered on the platform to show you that we are with you as you head out on your next adventure. And we will keep you here,” I placed my hand on my heart and then on his. I continued, “we will always be here for you, you are never alone. And look on that train, you are not alone. Look, you will find your mom and dad, friends, family whom you have not seen for a while. Your beloved dog Bear is on that train. So is Zane.”

He looked into my eyes, and I think he understood what I was trying to say. He nodded. I told him that this next trip would be a fabulous journey with so many beautiful walks waiting for him. “Where do you think you will be going?” I asked. He didn’t know. “Where do you think might be your first stop?” I asked. “Nova Scotia”, he said with a smile. I agreed with him, and he closed his eyes.

On Earth Day, in the early afternoon Kirk boarded the train home. His son had previously called all his family to say goodbye. Kirk was able to hear their voices. He could feel the energy of love that surrounded him. He was aware he was not alone; in fact, the platform was crowded with a lifetime of fond memories. He knew the affection he had for us was reciprocal.

It was his son, his daughter-in-law and me that happened to be in the room, when the train pulled away, taking our beautiful, positive, giving friend to his next adventure. It was a peaceful moment where, as he lay facing his son, drew one last breath and passed. We sat there, a surreal sharing of relief for Kirk and sorrow for us.

“All aboard” was Kirk’s philosophy. Fitting to the concept of a train ride home. He believed that each experience, good or bad, was the way it was supposed to be. He faced every adversity with courage and confidence he would overcome, teaching us all the power of positivity.

He taught us by example how a walk can clear your head and bring you strength.

He taught us the true meaning of hope, and that this lifetime is worth fighting for.

Of the many teachings he demonstrated through his actions, my favorite lesson is the importance to ‘chill’-his word for 2024 and the word I will practice in his honor.

His legacies are his family and his optimistic outlook. Kirk LOVED this life and wanted nothing else but to stay here with us. To which he also accomplished; although we waved goodbye, his promise to send us post cards, we are already receiving.

Kirk, thank you for being our million-dollar friend. How blessed we are to have been in your company for decades and now to have you as a guardian angel. Your life here continues. Enjoy the train home.

Turn Around, Your Life is Now Here

April 21, 2024 / Mama Fish

Birthdays are naturally a time of reflection. A review of the year, its highs and lows and the goals that may or may not have been reached. This year, the Bonnie Tyler song, Turn Around seems to pop into my mind. The song is defined as being a poignant song that reflects on the passage of time and the fleeting nature of life.

This birthday approached with some melancholy. It is my first birthday walk in the reservoir without my sweet Tango. It is the 6^th birthday since my son texted me “Happy birthday mama”. The first since my brother, my friends have passed…an obvious but mocking reminder that life at 16 has ‘turned around’ and is very different than what 61 years holds.

When 61 was reversed, 16-year-old me was fearless. I was a feminist, who raced go karts and jumped off swings better than any boy. I stood firm for what I believed in, hiding stray dogs from the pound and getting beat up defending a girl from bullies. I was courage in a tomboy body. With age, courage has changed.

Courage matures as we go through life. Experience grows a deeper understanding of reality than when we were young. When I was 16, I did not think of the consequences of going too fast around a track corner and flipping. I knew it was a possibility, but nothing could happen, right? Life teaches us that yes, it can happen. And it does and with that, our courage becomes different.

It can appear like courage leaves us growing old and more afraid. But I think that courage never leaves. It rests within us, saving its self-up for bigger and more scary things, like cancer and losing a loved one. It presents itself differently than its 16-year-old version. It approaches quieter, slower but never weaker. Our courage develops into an almighty weapon. It takes our learnings and our fears, and it bottles them into a ‘red bull’ energy drink for our soul. Courage, like our body, grows up.

I recently had a conversation about how I have quit fighting the fact that grief has changed me and am becoming comfortable with the concept that I will never be the same. I think I have struggled with this for so long because I liked who I was. Or perhaps it was because I felt I lacked the courage to ask my grief who shall I become with you. Life changes us and most times we are not even aware of that fact. Until the song Turn Around plays on the radio.

When life presents you with a big bag of grief to carry, courage kicks in and gives you the strength you need to face the demons of life. This year, my 61^st, I will remind myself of that when I look in the mirror and ask, “what might the 16-year-old you do?”

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The Stage of Actively Waiting

April 7, 2024 / Mama Fish

The doctors have told us that Kirk’s life expectancy is now just a couple of weeks. We hold that remark in our hearts, but we already knew. Each visit, we can see the changes in his eyes, his breathing, and his low vitality. And each visit ends with him telling us, he needs to save his energy. This visit, I asked him, “Honey, what are you saving your energy for?” He replied, “tomorrow”.

I remember having a conversation with Zane about what he wanted to do when he graduated. He wanted to travel and move into his own place by the river and pay off his car. Simple, easy, expected goals. I asked what he was doing to achieve these things and he said, “small steps that help me actively wait”.

Actively waiting is a constructive approach to goals. It is about knowing what you want or need and then doing small things towards that. It is about being patient, waiting for the changes to arrive with those actions in place. Kirk seems to be doing this naturally. Waking to talk to family and friends that come by. Adding to the conversation with his witty humor and his always positive perspective. And then resting. I am sure he is beginning to understand on some cosmic level, what he is waiting for. Although he would prefer to be here, he is almost ready for his next adventure.

In the meantime, actively waiting is different for his family. Kirk’s goal is to be ready for his afterlife. Our goal is to help prepare his departure to heaven. We have visited the funeral home, planning for a celebration worthy of the man who will be leaving earth. We have talked about what we still might need to say before… We begin to pull together pictures and stories that will be shared as a group, soon to be gathered to say goodbye to a father, grandfather, brother, and friend.

Actively waiting isn’t easy. It requires a strength to move towards the inevitable or desired outcome, taking little steps to ensure that once we have arrived, we have done our best. When a loved one is dying, actively waiting carries with it a large component of grief. All the steps you are taking you are acutely aware that the goal is about dealing with death. A goal that contains one hoping for longer, while preparing for when time stops. It is also good mourning. We are putting into place things now that will be needed for later to help us manage both a broken heart and the honoring of our friend. We are taking Zane’s advice; small steps that help us actively wait.

An Easter Message from Heaven

March 31, 2024 / Mama Fish

In our family, Easter is another excuse to gather. It includes traditions; my daughter still insists on an egg hunt. We try new things. This year the highlighted cocktail is a ‘bunny mary’ (same as a bloody mary but with carrot juice!). I am sure Zane would approve. It is a fun, light-hearted and simple holiday but with a deep message. It kicks off the season to warmer days and the fresh smells of rain. It represents natures message of new beginnings and religions message of the same, to live fully, the life we are blessed with.

One of my like-life visits from Zane, after he was killed, was he came bouncing up the stairs to greet me, wearing a bright blue jacket. He ran into my room, grinning from ear to ear. I hugged him and squealed, “you’re alive, you’re alive…” and he smiled and then melted onto the rug as I screamed, “come back!” I have never forgotten that dream. It felt so real, and it came at Easter.

The following Easter, I dreamt I had come into the room and Zane was at the end of a table, sorting eggs & treats. I asked what he was up to, and he replied, “It’s Easter, we must get ready.” He seemed content sorting out the different Easter symbols. I woke, disturbed, wondering what I was to be ready for. And each year since, I have had Zane visit at Easter with a similar message. It wasn’t until this year I started considering any underlining significance of these visits when my father came with Zane to tell me, point blank, watch out, for this is a season where things happen. Subtle, but important things.

We have a lot of birthdays around this season. My father passed away at Easter. The kids’ first pet arrived at Easter. We have had friends die at this time of year. Why was my father accompanying Zane this time. In this dream, according to my father, I have not been paying attention. He needed to come with Zane to set me straight! So typical of dear old dad.

My belief that spring is the season to bring into play your best self was something I learned from my family and shared with my children. I am sure my father and son’s awareness of my constant go-go-go, my total disregard for what ails me, and lately, my scary high blood pressure, has them rolling their eyes and shaking their finger at me as does my earthly family. I know this sounds so far out there but I could feel the two of them sitting next to me. Telling me to take some of my own advice!

The Easter visits, the vividness of Zane’s physical body coming through slumber has brought an annual message of hope, of confirmation he is still here, of how he is aware of what we are all doing. And possibly a telling of how he wants more for me. On earth, Zane would joke about my self-care by giving me a hug or a loving slap on the shoulder and say, “don’t die on me yet, mama”. Easter’s message of renewed life and how faith and hope bring this about for all of us, is the reminder my son has been bringing to me each year. An assurance that they are with us and that they want the best for us.

Oh, how the holidays he knows I care for make me miss him more. His appearances as I sleep reflect the communications he had when he lived here. This one I can hear him say, “It’s spring mama, take care of you.”

The Commonalities of Child Loss

March 24, 2024 / Mama Fish

One of my friends was scared when her child was diagnosed with cancer. She survived and is now cancer free. One of my friends is scared as her child is currently fighting cancer. I didn’t have a chance to be scared. Sudden death does not include any time to be scared. It does not bring with it anticipatory grief. This has its own merit and its own pain. The cause of death can affect the grief process.

Our society likes to fit death into specific types, each one dictating the period we are permitted to grieve openly, how we should feel, behave, and move forward with our grief. We are judged by how we grieve. “Oh, she acts as if nothing happened.” or “It was just a dog…what is wrong with her?” or “She needs to be there for her other children.” or “She is too young (or too old) to remarry now”. Society has it wrong. In the end, it is the person grieving that must find their voice and stand firm in the chosen way they need to grieve, often leaving behind family and friends who cannot support this.

One cause of death brought this thinking to mind. I was reading about miscarriages and the impact of how irrelevant our society seems to address this loss. One in four women will have a miscarriage. That’s how we look at it. Another statistic. But what about that woman, the one in four. She was holding life inside her. She was excited about being a mother. No matter the debate on when life begins, if that woman was anticipating giving birth, to care for and do her best for this fetus, she is now a mother. No matter what fate brings or choices she had (or didn’t have) control over, she is a mother.

So why do we not stand next to that family like we would if it had been born and lived for a longer period of time. Why are we advised not to ‘celebrate’ we are pregnant for the first trimester? The medical answer is because that is when most miscarriages happen. Perhaps this is our society’s way of shielding others from the pain of a potential loss. It is absurd when you think about the instructions to not hope until you know more, when we never truly know the fate of our children. Ask any grieving mother. I personally had no idea of the trauma, the pressure to accept and move on mothers of a miscarriage or stillborn baby endure. Not until I started hearing their stories. A mother’s umbilical cord connects her to a soul, transforming her life. That cord is eternal.

As a mother who lost her child, I can relate. One can argue at what age is more painful to lose a child, but every age brings with it the same feelings of loss, of deep anguish. Each of these deaths, regardless of the child’s age, brings the questions of ‘what if’, and ‘could I have done something different’. The only concrete known is that the heart is now broken.

The ugly and truly sad common denominator of every mother who has lost a child is that it brings with it the anger that fate has stolen our opportunity of more time with our child. It robs us of memories, dreams, hopes we had for this child. It replaces a future with a past we long for and a bitter-sweet present.

We are taught that loss is loss and the greatest loss of all is your loss. Whatever loss that was. The cause of death does bring different elements with it but what is important is that we have ended up in the same place of eternal sorrow. How we got there is minimal compared to the long journey ahead. Grief is universal.

Are You Prepared?

March 17, 2024 / Mama Fish

We have been visiting our friend in hospice for a month or so now. Everyone is aware that treatment of his brain cancer has stopped. There is nothing else that can be done. We listen as the doctors tell us what the next stages will look like and to be prepared. Be prepared? How does one truly do that?

Each morning begins with a trip to visit him. He smiles, we chat, he tells us he loves us. We say it back. The conversations are light, about a morning walk he had (in his mind as we know he has not left the room). We read to him the daily verse of ‘the big book’ of A.A and we analyze that. He continues to inspire us, coach us as he lays there talking about life, about how he wishes to live. “…And then some,” he says.

Ice cream, diet coke and tapioca pudding. These are some of his favorite things. As we sit one morning watching him eat a drumstick of chocolate and peanuts, he says, “when I don’t want to eat ice cream, you can start to worry about me.” We laugh.

One visit I asked if he felt his prayers were heard. He said most of them. I asked what do you do about the ones that are not answered? He said, “I pray harder.” I hugged him before I left and noticed the color of his eyes, the new way he was breathing. I leaned in close to his face and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” He nodded. I asked, “can you let me know when I won’t be able to?” He looked at me, silent, then he squeezed my hand and whispered, “I’ll try.”

Things have started to really change now. His desire to sit up, to walk, to chat for longer than ten minutes has vanished. “I had a long walk this morning, I need to just rest now” he would say as he closed his eyes. Our cue to leave. Visits are still daily, but now we find him sleeping and he falls back to sleep as we chat. I think on some level, our friend is trying to prepare. Silently, I am sure his talks with God and the realization he stays dormant weighs on his mind. These thoughts take space with his tumor. There is an irony to all this; staying mentally positive so that you may live while the reason you are dying is found in the same organ.

Who knows when your last breath will be. But we know it is sooner than later for our sweet friend. His son calls to share his visit, how hard it is on him to see his father like this. He asks if we are aware his father is not here for long. Yes, we know. We talked about how he feels about that. He believes he is comfortable with what has been said. We have all shared memories and thoughts and endearments of how important he is to us now and forever. We have prepared ourselves for the inevitable. There’s that word again. Prepared.

When grief arrives, it rips you apart and ‘prepared’ crumbles into a million tears and questions about was it enough. I don’t know how to prevent this. I just know it happens. My heart aches for his children, his siblings, his friends, for us. His son says he knows one cannot be fully prepared, but he will find strength in knowing his father is not in any pain. I smile. It is that small but comforting truth to which we will cling to. It might help us to be prepared for the moment that anticipatory grief becomes eternal heartache.