Category: Shared Grief (Page 8 of 21)

Sweet Travels My Dear Romeo & Juliet

April 2, 2023 / Mama Fish

I must get past the pain to tell this story. I must get past the everyday business that stole from the last moments. I must get past the selfishness of dealing with the plans and expectations of others. I must get past all this to get to the center of the reality. Of the importance of what just happened. The story of Romeo & Juliet in 2023.

Theirs was the true taboo story. First cousins that fell in love and knew they could never be, so continued with their lives as relatives…marrying others, leading their own lives and yet somehow, each knowing, that the universe knew better. They were to be together. And how could that be? So, after two failed marriages for one and one failed marriage for the other, they reunited, were married in San Francisco and the rest is history. They lived happily ever after for 42 years. Until age and poor health brought them to the decision to leave this realm together.

Juliet loved her man. She agreed to leave because he suggested it and her health was not good either. More importantly, he was her first love and her only true love. She had a strong will and a desire to create adventures for the two of them. She provided him with a life of beauty and friends and trips captured in photos that filled many boxes for us. She was always to be with him. Death would not change this.

Romeo was in love with her. He had children but she was his queen, and he spent his life trying to balance fatherhood and husband hood. He was a gentle man, a kind man, a giving man. He cared for his Juliet with a passion and dedication that some could not understand. He showered her with cards and roses and jewelry. When I met them, they instantly became family. They were a couple of sweeties who we enjoyed many special moments with over martinis and wine.

Their decision to leave this earth caused family and friends some emotional pain. It was the love for them that had us all agree it was the best decision for them. And so began the many tasks of preparing for this day. The family, each dealing with anticipatory guilt, each holding a combination of past, present, and future needs, wants and fears, which raised voices and misunderstandings; including the questions of who loved who best and what is the definition of family and who deserves what. All things that had me spiralling spiritually as to how does this even matter with the action at hand. Our friends are about to die.

That is the problem of knowing the due date of death. We are aware, we don’t like it and we often try to control it or tweak the details to suit us. It gets murky as to what is best for your loved ones and what you might think is best. Opinions become facts and conversations are twisted. At a time where we should be closer and celebrating the lives of those we are about to lose, instead we become angry. What I discovered was that grief becomes even more complicated by unresolved past issues.

At the end of the day, not much could be fixed. We took Juliet to lunch for martinis. Romeo stayed home with the children. It seemed apparent that there were two families, not one saying goodbye. The ugly and sad side of any complicated love story. Where family caught up with their own expectations becomes blinded to the love that is of Romeo & Juliet.

We brought both to their bedroom to prepare for their departure. They had only, at the end of the day, a few moments alone because of the many friends and family rushing in to say their last goodbyes. I said to my husband, “what do you think were the last words they said to each other in that short of time?” What do you say to the man you love to the depth of your soul? And Romeo, what do you say to the woman who has given you her entire life and her afterlife? What possible words can be said to answer that question? Are there any?

Lying together, family at each side, Romeo and Juliet were injected with the medical drip to release them from this realm. I had placed a heart shaped stone of selenite to offer them a peaceful trip to eternity. They laid there, holding hands, falling into their transitional sleep. I heard Romeo say, with a smile on his face, “I love you sweetie” and he passed. She spoke of family and how they were with her and passed with a contented sigh. A surreal ending.

It was so quiet, so peaceful. There was no fight; it was total acceptance of the opportunity to move on. Romeo & Juliet, like their Shakespearean counterparts, had their trials and obstacles to overcome with those who opposed their love. They had their struggles to find balance amongst the defiance. They found strength in the knowledge that they are soulmates. They demonstrated love and loyalty and faithfulness to a degree experienced by few. They were not without their arguments, frustrations that come with a love that spanned across the decades, but in the end, they chose each other.

I hope that Juliet left with the comfort that her Romeo loved her first and foremost. And I hope that Romeo knew the love of his Juliet was immeasurable. He was always her only one.

It was about the two of them. They made it about the two of them, barring all else, it was about the two of them. And thus, they chose to leave this life together. Holding hands. Our very own modern-day Romeo & Juliet.

For Laura

March 19, 2023 / Mama Fish

There were near 600 of us, gathered to say goodbye to Laura. We were not supposed to be here. She was only 34 years old. She was planning her wedding to the love of her life. She had a blossoming career she was passionate about. She wanted to be a mother. It was supposed to be a routine ‘tune up’ and she died on the operating table. Sudden death. We are all thrown into shock. Her father, a close friend of ours, asked my husband, “when will it seem real?” to which my husband replied, “Never”.

Her story is that of so many of our children. A life enthusiast that brought the sun into each room she entered. She made friends with everyone she met, evident by the number of young people crowding the hall. It reminded me of Zane’s celebration. His friends, dressed to honor him, holding each other in disbelief, tears, and toasts to their buddy. At Laura’s many of them wore Nike running shoes…her favorite. Even her father showed off a new pair, a whimsical contrast to the formal suit he wore.

I sat there listening quietly to the testimonies given and the promises to always remember her. I heard her fiancé question how he could go on without his soul mate. I heard her younger brother share that he loved her because she always ensured he “was seen”. His words cut me deepest. I envisioned Payton in his place just a few years earlier, bravely thanking Zane’s friends for being there for her on that day and asking them to be there for her forever. A promise they have kept.

Funerals are not about closure so much, but more the opening to facing grief. They are a forum for those in pain to gather and share their love for the one that has gone and find comfort together. We reminisce in our shock and the questions begin. How could this have happened. How will we go on. And the most important one, where have they gone.

I listened to these sweet young adults, pleading for a dream or a sign that she is somehow still here. I wanted to hug each one of them and reassure them that it is true. She has not left. She will show up in beautiful, magical signs that your heart will know is her. It might be a dime found, the sailboat emoji shared between her and her close friend, it might be a Nike ad or a rainbow reminding you of her favorite song. There will be signs. And they will speak to your soul directly.

I wanted to tell them that they now are responsible for the promises made that afternoon. They must keep saying her name. Celebrate her special days and bring into their own lives ways to honor her, celebrate her, continue her legacy. She was brave. She was fun in a mischievous way that made everyone laugh. Be that. For her.

This funeral was hard for me because it reminded me so much of Zane’s. She reminded me so much of Zane. The beauty of her human experience. The numerous lives she shaped, enriched. The agony that she had so many adventures still to enjoy. The senselessness of her death. But also came that afternoon, the quiet reminder that I have come to understand in my own journey; it is her body that we can no longer hold but that her spirit stays with us. My hope for our friend is that this understanding may come to be his one day.

The Sharpness of Anticipatory Grief

March 12, 2023 / Mama Fish

Our friends have chosen the day they wish to depart. Through the assistance of MAID, they will be leaving this realm at the end of the month. We behave like they are planning to move. Which in essence they are. We tease as a distraction to what is happening by referring to it as ‘when you check out’. The reality of their truth is only now starting to hit home.

The pre-planning of death has numerous facets. Wills need to be in place, utilities need to be notified, investments need to be transferred, accounts need to be closed. The house needs to be purged and sold. The cat needs to find a new home. It is demanding. We have spent a lot of time with our friends doing our best to minimize these stresses so that they may enjoy their last days here.

As family and friends are notified that there will be no more events attended by them as of this spring, emotions vary and are raw. Understanding their decision fluctuates with each person. I have had my moments. I wanted this year to be one with no more losses and their intentional planning messed that up. A reminder that life is rarely about oneself. I don’t want them to go. We have had over thirty years of laughter and shared experiences. These two are more like family than friends. They are aunt and uncle to my children. They are our go to for a martini and wine. And yet, they will be gone soon, and I know this. It is planned.

It is not a sudden death that throws you into grief. It is anticipated which drags you, kicking and screaming to grief. And their decision is not about having a terminal illness or having endless pain, conditions that justify the desire to let your loved ones go. It is a personal decision they have made that their health and quality of life is not where they want to be, and it will only get worse. Thus, their choice. I get it. I am supporting them. It just doesn’t make it any easier.

The double edge sword of anticipatory grief is time. It is complicated because it holds promise and opportunity. One has time to plan the remainder of life on earth and the hereafter with focus. One has time to have more. More conversations, more memories, more hugs, more dinners. This is the comforting side, knowing that death will soon be here we become more intentional. The other side is less friendly.

Anticipatory grief makes us anxious; it is the taunting knowledge that time will soon be gone. This type of grief makes it difficult to focus on daily tasks that now seem mundane but are necessary. It brings the anger and sorrow of loss to hang over the last memories you are cramming in before they go. It brings with it a different type of guilt, a nervousness of is there enough planned, what else can be done, said, experienced before they depart. Grief is exhausting. Anticipatory grief can be double exhausting because, although I am grateful that I do have more time with my friends, I carry with me the agony of knowing, with each minute, that there is coming a point where there will be no more time. Two more of my tribe will no longer be. I can’t do anything about it.

I try to balance this madness by keeping busy doing little tasks for them that comfort them. I call them more often, visit them more often, ask more questions and share ideas of how we will honor them. We sort through photographs of past times and laugh at the “remember when…”

Our recent visit, my friend hugged me and tearfully said, “this is so hard, but I know that it is the right thing to do”. His strength found in his belief gives me the strength to keep showing up and to continue making memories with them that I will carry with me long after their final sunset.

Memorial Tribute to Dan

March 5, 2023 / Mama Fish

Dear Dan,

Today marks one year since we held your hand and said our goodbyes. It seems like yesterday we were laughing about life’s absurdities and giving thanks we were in it together. It also seems like it was a lifetime ago. Your death was different than Zane’s. I was able to say goodbye to you. I was able to tell you how much I loved you. I was able to make promises about life after you leave.

Your leaving has brought changes, big changes. These past twelve months, I have watched your family struggle without you. I have done my best to be there for them, a vow I made to you. The impact you had on us is clear. The love and attention we received from you is missing.

I remain steadfast that your name comes first. I have watched your bed side predictions come to life and have struggled to cope with the new realities. I hope you know that I try. You knew better. Perhaps your predictions were not that at all. Perhaps they were perceptions; that you knew, standing on the doorstep of death, what was coming. Your soft-spoken words were not a request of me but an assurance for me that you knew. It would be ok. I am going to hold on to that. I like the notion that, from wherever you are, that you are smiling with an “I told you so”. You are with us, able to see our pain but cheering us on from the heavens to create a life that brings us each happiness.

We continue to celebrate you, mindful of putting into place things that will honor you. We have received ‘gifts’ from you; obvious ones like the closer relationship I now have with your sister. Not so obvious ones too, like your visits through the electrical power of my light turning on in the middle of the night. I thank you for all of these.

Perhaps year two we can be a little louder, a little bolder. Like you were. I promise to continue to bring you with us. I promise to say your name. I promise that you will always be family. Death will not change that. And I wanted to thank you for the reminder that life will go on and that you are ok that it does. And therefore, we should be.

Look at you, Dan, continuing to teach from afar. Thank you. “I.O.U. big time”.

Holding the Black Balloon

February 26, 2023 / Mama Fish

My nephew recently attended the funeral of a friend of his who passed away of an accidental overdose. It was his tenth friend that died this way. He knows of another five young adults that have left earth in the same manner. I’m not sure what part is the saddest. That funerals from this cause of death are so many, that we seem numbed to the frequency of such or that my nephew has buried more friends in his short life than I have in mine. Both are equally tragic. Most importantly, another family is thrown into a lifetime of grief and will never be the same.

March 6^th is called black balloon day. Created by the family of Greg Tremblay, in memory of his passing in 2015. It is a day to stop and consider how many lives end unnecessarily through substance abuse. A day to remember those who are in pain and grieving from this. A day to create awareness to prevent future overdose. A day to further the conversations to learn more of this hushed epidemic. They symbolize this day with a black balloon. And encourage you to be creative, to post a balloon on social media and share how this day effects you.

For me, this day is about the many (new) friends I have in my grief community. The parents who have lost a child to drugs. Their stories of their beautiful, larger-than-life children whose desire to experience life at its fullest was too short.

This day is about my fear for my own family members who struggle with addiction, and on those very bleak days I go to bed with only the control to pray to God, they make it.

This day is about being angry that there seems to be no solution. And the continued hope that there will be one. There must be one. We are losing too many.

And this day is about the man who tried but failed to overcome his addiction and, in his actions, killed three people, including my son.

The symbol chosen for this day; the black balloon is fitting. A balloon, filled with either one’s breath or helium to represent the growth of life, blowing it up big. The color representing the agony and despair of what addiction can bring. But the most important detail of this balloon, I believe, is the ribbon. The simple thread which ties the balloon to an anchor. Secured, so that it won’t float away to the heavens. The ribbon, a symbol of confirmation that no matter how hard or how long one’s fight against drug addiction is, there will be someone there holding on.

Between the Setting of the Sun and Moon

February 12, 2023 / Mama Fish

After Zane was killed, I started journaling my dreams. Somewhere I had read that dreams were the gateway to the other realm and that if you started recording them shortly after you woke, your intuition would increase. It became a nightly practice to shut off the external world, meditate and drift off to another possible adventure with my boy.

I had forgotten of the many dreams I had of Zane then. Each dream had a different scenario and Zane was different ages, but the ‘life like’ feeling of him being there was the thread of each one. I wrote about his laugh and his mannerisms and his role as my confidante. The dreams were of make-believe happenings; a conference we attended together, or our first home but he was a teenager, or Zane as a father of a 6-year-old girl. I would journal the dream details in the morning before they were gone. Each incident was as if he visited me and each time I would wake, I would have a feeling of peace. He was close. He was tangible. And I began to look forward to sleeping, knowing that we would be together. And then I quit dreaming.

When grief is new, we pray for visits from our loved ones while we sleep. We revel in the bitter-sweet joy they bring when they do happen and pout when days or weeks go by without a dream of them. Why do the dreams not happen? What became of my dreams that after the first year or two were less and less frequent? Why did I stop journaling?

I believe it is because our grief is no longer raw. Time pulls us away from the significance of being able to sit in the shock of our grief. The influences of others and demands of ‘moving forward’. We quit practicing the techniques we learned that connect us to spirit. Our ability to keep things simple and open to the other realm gets put on a shelf because our daily grind demands our attention. We become tired; battle worn.

We tend to complicate our lives with too many thoughts, or we get back to old habits rather than the new ones that dream journaling need to be practiced to be its best. Like meditation. Like being still. Like listening to the silence or the melodic tunes of HZ music. All of these we know bring us closer to spirit, but we become too busy or feel too hurt to keep it up. And then we wonder why we are not visited as much. We forget what Rumi tells us, “Death has nothing to do with going away. The sun sets, the moon sets. But they are not gone.”

Dreaming about our loved ones is finding that spot in between the setting of the sun and moon. Where our loved ones wait to visit us. It is we that must raise our consciousness to a higher level to open up the possibility of connecting. We must make this part of our daily exercise if we want to continue a new relationship with those we love.

My journals inspired me to record my dreams again. The recollections of these visions, time spent with my son on another level of awareness, reminded me that he is still in my life. He is waiting for me to meet him under the stars to laugh together until the moon sets and the sun awakens.

Suited for Grief

February 5, 2023 / Mama Fish

My (future) son-in-law asked me to accompany him to purchase his wedding suit. He is having it tailor made and was going to finalize the details and be measured. I was happy to go along. It was planned we would go to his appointment and then go for a drink at his favorite watering hole. As I sat at the table waiting for him to come out of the changing room, it hit me how typical this type of afternoon was when Zane was around.

The little spontaneity I enjoyed in my life usually happened with a call or a text from my boy. “Hey ma, want to meet me at Earl’s for a drink?” The answer would always be yes. No matter what I had going on, I dropped and raced to meet him. It was special he wanted to hang out with his mother. “Want to grab a bite?” “I’m going car shopping, want to come?” I loved those times. Bonding at its best. Now, here I was, with the fiancé of my daughter who also happens to be one of Zane’s best friends, watching him choose the fabric for the lining of his suit, and asking my opinion.

How strong we can be in an instant. I could feel the pangs of heartache within me, and I pushed them aside with a firm, “not now”. I wanted to relish in the experience. It was so special; it was a transferred moment I should have had with Zane. The sweet of my bitter-sweet life. I was not going to let grief take this away from me.

Grief does not always have to be in the front seat. Yes, we live with our grief, but time grows power to be able to say “I know you are there. Please give me this moment and then I will listen to you.” By consciously speaking to our grief, we lessen its grip, and it can sit in the back while we experience joy of the life we still have. This is an exercise that gets stronger with practice. It is a way to live harmoniously with grief, rather than always fighting it. A compromise perhaps, but small joy is better than no joy. I can build on that.

After the suit fitting, we met with another close friend of Zane’s to have that drink. My grief, quietly in the rear, letting me have this reprieve to soothe my heart. We toasted to the upcoming wedding, and the appreciation that we were all together. And we were. This was a typical setting Zane would have arranged and knowing that was a sign he too was at our table.

I am very lucky to have had so many spontaneous moments over the years with Zane. I continue to be lucky that his friends have adopted me. Whether they know it or not, their invites to include me are suited for my grief.

I Wish for You…

January 29, 2023 / Mama Fish

A creative friend has started a class on grief journalling. When she said she wanted to start this in honor of her daughter and to help others channel their grief, I was totally on board. Sign me up! I had no idea what to expect and, now halfway through the course, I must say that it has been therapeutic. It is a small group of women, some who have lost a child, others a husband, a parent, or a special relative. A mosaic of pain and understanding. A safe circle where we are encouraged to share stories and celebrate the lives of those we lost.

One of our recent assignments was to write a “I Wish” letter to our loved one. When I told my daughter she gasped, saying that ask would send her over the edge. I sat to write out my letter and found that she was quite right. This exercise brought up all the what if’s and the if only and brought me to tears many times before I could finally complete it.

Dear Zane,

I wish I could have given you more. I wish you had taken a semester off to travel to Spain to enrich your love of the language as you had wanted to do. I wish we travelled to Montana, Vancouver, and Ireland. Those were always ‘one year’ plans we shared.

I wish I had taken a photo walk with you and spent more time learning about the camera we bought you, your prized possession. I wish you could have enjoyed the birthday gift I planned for you, shooting the cave and basins in Banff with a professional photographer guide! I wish you could have published one of your short stories or sold your photos. I wish the world could have seen the artistic side of you.

I wish you could be at your sister’s wedding, and I wish that a wedding would have been part of your plan. I wish you could be at the wedding of your friends who hold this same wish. You were to be the best man for many of them.

I wish you could have enjoyed your own home. A place that held your energy and that you found comfort in after a long day. We had such ideas of where this place would be, along the river, close to the night life you adored.

I wish that your soul plan had been different for you. And yet, I am learning that there is a reason for everything, including me having to live without you on earth. More than ever, I wish I could somehow be here, and you there and still be able to hold you.

I noticed as I wrote my letter that I was wishing for things for me; spending more time with him seemed to be an underlying theme. The letter was to be about what you wish they obtained or experienced before they departed, a written collection of what they missed out on. Writing what I wished for Zane, the answer to what he and all of us missed out on was simple. A lifetime of new memories. I wish for a lifetime of new memories we will never get.

The Gift of Time

January 22, 2023 / Mama Fish

While waiting for our plane to take off, I was scrolling through Facebook and came across a post that the husband of a colleague of mine had passed. I had no idea as we have not talked since 2020. I knew he was sick; he was sick when we met. So why I was shocked and now crying on the plane surprised me.

His unique obituary, a personal blog of his journey that he wrote to the world, has captured many people who have never met him but feel his spirit through his words. And he is inspiring. Even after death. His wife, who equals his grace, and his two children, join our community of grief.

Every grief journey is different. Hers began with the diagnosis that her husband had only a few months to live. When I met my friend, she was a new hire to the organization I worked for. She had just started when the news of her future was given. We worked close together, and she balanced her demanding job in between his cancer treatments and raising two teenagers. She was an example of light, love and how to have it all. I admired her. I enjoyed working with her. And when I quit to move to another contract, we promised to continue supporting each other over our favorite glass of wine. Her husband was in remission then and somehow, I thought he would live forever.

Sitting and reading the beautiful summary of his life I was filled with remorse. I was not there for her. I did not keep in touch. She reached out when Zane was killed with the same sweet kindness, she shares with everyone. We promised, again, to keep in touch. That did not happen. Life seems to blur what we want to do with what time there is to do it all. And now, the opportunities to have been there with her, for her and her family, are gone. Or are they?

True, we get busy with our own grief and life demands that we do not always get to where we want to go or be the person we want to be. However, we know that guilt has no room here and each day is a new day to make a difference. She has lots of family and friends to support her. And I can still be one of those. It is what we are taught in grief. That our community is one filled with those who are missing their loved one, and although their story and their pain will be different than our own, we understand loss.

I think that is what is important. Perhaps a lesson hiding. Time is so unrelated. It promises nothing, it stands in front of us, empty and waiting for us to fill it in what way we choose. Each day is a new blank slate with the opportunities to do different, to do better. It is a gift that each of us receives, and my friends’ husband knew this well. The lesson, for me, knowing how he lived on this earth, is that time will tell and before it tells you, take it as a gift and make the most of it. As he did. As they all did.

To her husband, thank you. Thank you for being such a spirit of hope and optimism and an example of how each of us could be facing our own adversity. Your strength and courage are contagious. Your sense of humor had us all laughing, a lot. Your generosity was felt by so many, including me. Your love of family, friends and of this life, encourages us all to be the best we can be. And to relish in the time, we are given.

Bless you, Jim. Keep in touch.

Currently Under Construction

January 15, 2023 / Mama Fish

I was told recently my mood is a negative one. I am acutely aware of this and did not need to be reminded. But, bringing it up to discuss had me explore why I am unusually pessimistic. I am typically the one who is all about the sunshine. Lately, I am more about cloudy with a chance of rain.

I now believe that being moody is an emotion that cannot be suppressed or ignored. If it is, then it turns into a deep-set anger that brings with it more negativity. Moody now, clearer later is my response. It is interesting that as I lean into my pain, others notice and seem uncomfortable with this. I don’t expect to be grumpy the rest of my life. I feel this phase is part of my journey. I am oddly ok with it. I am trusting the Universe to ensure that my purpose and the individual I am to be, with grief, will come to be. I am learning to be patient on this journey I did not choose to take.

In grief, we are warned that people in our lives will want us to stay the same way we were before. They permit a short grieving period before suggesting we get back to normal. It is blatant that our past normal no longer exists. That truth everyone agrees on. Why then is it suggested we can return to our old normal? Why is it discouraged to bring new or different ways of being into our daily lives?

I think many of us are not comfortable with change. Especially of this magnitude. Uncalled for change. Death of a loved one catapults us into unknown territory. Major changes. We are re-learning how to be without those we love here in our physical realm. Our journey is all about change, about learning to be comfortable again. We will never be the same. So, what do we need to find our new normal?

I believe what we need is courage. The ability to be brave in the belief that with change, we will become a stronger, more rounded version of our (new) selves. We need to acknowledge that mood changes are part of that. We need to be patient with ourselves. And we need to address those who care for us with a simple thank you. A reassurance we are ‘under construction’ because of our loss. It is a process we are also uncomfortable with but a necessary one and that we are appreciative of their support and patience. We all must be patient.

And I must remember that this is my journey and my journey alone. I must accept that mood swings are part of the process. I must explore them and learn how to modify them so that they sit peacefully within me. I must remind myself, as often as is needed, that in this unknown territory, I am under construction to become who I am to be with my grief.