Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Tag: #cancer

It’s Going To Be OK

June 4, 2023 /

There were five of us diagnosed with cancer over the last year. Two with a brain tumor, one with melanoma, one with prostate and me with breast. It was another ‘thing’ that brought us closer. We all are good patients; listening, following doctor orders and so far, we all are ok. Until the phone rang.

I remember sitting in the doctor’s office with her. She was scared as an infection was now being biopsied. I held her hand. “It’s going to be ok.”  We found out it was skin cancer. Surgery came.  It going to be ok. Then more was found in the lymph nodes. It’s going to be ok. More surgery. It’s going to be ok. Then a lump appeared. It’s going to be ok. And then the lump grew. And now the treatment is radiation to ensure the lump doesn’t blow up until they figure it out. The answers will come next week.

While we wait, her sweet husband is calling all of us. It’s going to be ok, has turned to, “It’s not looking good”. And each of us holds our breath and sends prayers to the heavens. How is this possible? It was just 6 months ago we were shaking our booty to Pit Bull at her birthday party. A milestone party where we laughed at how she could shake it and would be shaking it for decades longer. What the hell happened?  How did we go from that to this.

The sudden death of our children (3 of the 5 of us have lost a child), has taught us that life is not always how we wish. Through our children’s death we have learned to be warriors. But when ill health hits us personally, the art of being a warrior takes on a new meaning. A physical fight needs to join the emotional battle we endure every day. We have so much more living to do.  Not for us.  No, this is an unselfish request, plea to the Universe that we have another child, a pet, a spouse, more family…we have a ton of reasons as to why we must still be here.  We are not ready to go because we know we are still needed.  Our loved ones have already lost, and we want to spare them the pain of losing more.

These earthly emotions bring energy to your battle, strength to withstand cancer treatments and the pain that has you popping pills every four hours.  It brings that smile to your face that your family so desperately needs to see. It also brings you closer to fate. The closer we get to our fate, the clearer we become of what is happening.  Bravery becomes the mask worn.

Our group is blessed with the belief that we do not die. We live on. This doesn’t mean that when death comes close, it becomes more comfortable. No. It becomes the energy for our life’s task list. The clarity to see what still needs to be done, what can be released, and what we need to delegate becomes the focus. It is not giving up; it is getting real. We do it with the hope that there is a miracle still in the bag. It is demanding more time to ensure that when this life is completed, we pass with a feeling of peace that, “It’s going to be ok”.

That has now become the wish of my friend. And for the five of us, our friends and family, the term “FU** Cancer!” is shouted in unison. And shouted so loud that the heavens rumble.  

Finding Your New Normal

October 16, 2022 /

At a recent check-up, my nurse expressed I was healing slowly but assured me things would get back to normal in a month or two.  I left the hospital thinking how many times I have heard this. “When things are normal.” What does that even mean?

In grief, normal leaves our lives the day our loved one dies. Those around us wait, hope, and encourage us to get back to normal. They want, sometimes need us to be the way we were.  Change shakes up normal. That can be scary for everyone. It also puts an invisible guilt on those of us trying to get back to normal but not able to; we begin to think what’s wrong with me.

I started to remember about how futile my attempt to get back to normal has been. First with my grief and now my current physical health. Nothing will ever be normal again. Normal, for me, was killed four years ago and if I had any hope to believe I would get it back, that was removed with a bilateral mastectomy.  I am so far away from the normal I lived before all this, that the idea of ever having it back angers me because I know it is impossible.  It brings up the questions all over again of why and life plans and how do I get past this? Typical questions anyone of us ponders when faced with an unwelcomed twist.  

The truth is there is no normal after a major change. It exits loudly and with no compassion that you yearn for things to be the same. Life becomes so different from what normal was that any resemblance of before is lost.  This is a common feeling for those having no choice but to face the changes fate hands them that are life-altering.

So, let’s quit trying to be normal. We are not the same person that was aligned with that normal. We are different now. In our grief journey we are discovering new things about ourselves. We are finding new ways to cope. We understand the need for change.  Change from what was normal.  Changes that enable us to survive and hopefully, one day, thrive. Let’s take this empty hole, this day, this life and let’s look for what can be molded into a new, and yes different, but tolerable normal. 

What would that look like for you? What little things could you bring into your daily routine that eases your pain and can become a new normal. Grief trains us to take small steps. What small steps can you make towards a new normal? We can look at this as an opportunity to bring into our lives pieces of comfort that we didn’t before because of a hundred excuses. Throw away those now. We have a solid excuse to create a new normal.  Take what life has given to you, and design a new normal that honors you, honors your loved ones. Find a normal that fits the changes you did not ask for. Maybe with a little faith your new normal will have less stress, more peace, and a bit of joy.  

The Cloak of Grief is Anger

October 2, 2022 /

There is always supposed to be more time. I’ll see you soon. I’ll make that appointment. We will get to that tomorrow.  And then tomorrow never comes. Or it comes with a death sentence, and you are left having a list of things to be done before ‘times up’ and it leaves no room for what you wanted to do.

Our friend has brain cancer. And not a great prognosis even with his kick-ass 200% positivity. So, we, the recovery team as he calls us, are left to resolve a hundred things on his behalf and put into place care for now and for after. His two children, each with their own families and work commitments want to be with their dad and feel their grief. But the task list takes them away from that.  And replaces it with grief’s cloak. Anger.

Anger comes when your soul wants one thing, your heart needs one thing and life dictates another. I watch his children, worried about the unknown and scared for their father. They have stepped up.  Big time. Life doesn’t seem fair to them now.  And it isn’t. “We have so much to still share with Dad”. That won’t happen.  And they know this but between doctors and surgery and treatment and accommodations and paperwork, there is no time to feel this. Time. The elusive, non-refundable gift has been given to them, with an expiry date.

We sit with his children and the long list of what needs to be done.  We organize who can do what and pull in friends to support this. We talk with our friend about dying, about last wishes and we, together make a plan.  It brings a bit of relief to everyone. It gives us some control, some hope that we may be able to share a life, however short, that is filled with love and time together.

We now will go about implementing our strategy, with a plan b to create as we understand nothing goes according to the original ideals. We find comfort in the awareness that we are in this together and we have each other to lean on. All these things help. Yesterday, my friend told me his son said something profound. It was a short sentence that summed up our entire life.  It identified our anger. He said, “Dad, I’m just sad.”

The Arrival of Anticipated Grief

December 5, 2021 /

I’ve been watching my sweet little dog start to stumble as we walk, and I realize he is closer to the “rainbow bridge” than I want.  Or need him to be.  He has been the lifeline for me, for 15 years, especially after Zane was killed. I expect him to live to a ripe old and unrealistic age of 40. At the same time, my sister calls to share that her husband has cancer. The doctor has told them there is nothing they can do. In his professional opinion, he has another six to nine months.  This is the arrival of anticipated grief.

The magic of anticipated grief gives you a false sense of security. Shock, mixed with a bit of denial gives you the impression that you have more time. I mean the dog still runs like a puppy and my brother-in-law still goes to work. They look ok. For now. The beginning of anticipated grief is the sense that everything looks ok so must be ok.  We still have time.

The hope of anticipated grief brings an illusion that this is not happening at all. I mean they are still here.  Both dog and brother-in-law. And we have learned through painful, firsthand experience that the only true expert to dictate when you check out is God. It is this hope that anticipated grief dangles in front of you like the golden carrot.  The conversations become what if and what can we do and is this true. How can this be right?

The beauty of anticipated grief is that it gives you the luxury of planning. As my sister and her husband go about the daily routine activities of life, there is time to think about the afterlife.  What do we want for a funeral, what bridges might we mend before we go, are the wills in order?  This gift of time enables you to prepare for things that must be handled, that if you were dealing with a sudden death, they become priorities and not a lot of consideration to choices. My brother-in-law has a say in what he would like to have included now and after he leaves.

The agony of anticipated grief is that you know it is coming to stay. When I think of my little dog not here, I pick him up and cuddle him. As a sort of way of telling grief, “See, you cannot come, my dog is here, go away”. And yet, my heart knows that there will come a day, when it will be grief’s turn to say, “I’m sorry for your loss, I have come to live with you.  Again.”

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