A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Tag: death

Adopting Cultural Celebrations of the Dead

Not until I became a grief warrior did I discover how much western culture dismisses death.

The grace period seems to be about a year.  During that time you are expected to return to work and other obligations but there is a naïve acknowledgment of how hard life must be. There is also an outpouring of sympathy around every holiday.  Whispers of, “Oh this is her first Christmas, this is her first anniversary….” cards arrive in the mail box and friends drop by.  I am told that some who grieve are given less than a year and others no attention at all.  That is a whole other level of grief.  My heart hurts for those suffering alone.

When year two arrives, there is an expectation that, since we made it through year one, the rest of our time on earth without our loved ones is quite manageable.  Some have even suggested to me that by year two, “I should be over this now”.

Our culture does not like to acknowledge the ugly face of death.  Nor does it like to celebrate it.  In fact, we seem to do everything we can to bury our dead and move on quickly. This is accepted as normal bereavement behavior.  Our culture sucks.

Somewhere in my first year, I learned of Día de los Muertos, a day to honor our dead.  It is a Latin American celebration; an invitation to our deceased to join us from their spirit world for a night of song and food.  What was not to like about this idea?  I put out Zane’s favorite drink and a glass and gave a toast of cheer to him that night.  Later in the season, I met a friend of Zane’s who, from Mexico, said this is her family tradition.  She shared with me how and why they host this annual celebration and suggested I watch the Disney animated movie “Coco”. 

She said, “They nailed the representation of Día de los Muertos.  If you want a simple understanding of this holiday, watch the movie.”

Our family watched the movie.  I cried.  I suggest you watch it.  It encouraged me to do this each year.  So here we are.  The pumpkin carving begins. The décor of bats and witches brooms adorns porches across my community.  But inside, I have decorated my china hutch with orange and yellow flowers, candles and a couple sugar skulls. I have hung pictures of Zane and my other relatives who no longer live on this earth. I have called the family to join me for dinner on November 2nd to sit around the table and celebrate those who we miss.  I will serve their favorite foods; there will be wine and a Jameson shot (or two) and there will be laughter.  

I believe that part of our war with grief is that we are told to move on, get over it or push past it. Death makes people uncomfortable.  We need to create a culture for ourselves and others, where we are not only able to speak of the dead but to celebrate them and keep them an active part of our lives.

Dia de los Muertos is good mourning.

What are you really wishing for?

I bought a battery operated pillar candle that had a timer.  I placed it on a small patio table by our front door.  I had it timed to go on a little before Zane would come home from work, around midnight.  He enjoyed listening to podcasts sitting next to its artificial flame as a way to unwind after a long busy shift.  For the first year, after the crash, I would go to the door before bed and see it shining, waiting for him to come home.  And I would whisper, “Love you, miss you, wish you were here”.

The number one wish for grief warriors is “I wish you were here”.  Lately I’ve been thinking about this.  Does this wish negate our belief that our loved ones are always “here”?  If we believe, to any depth, that they are at peace, in a better place or free…is it selfish to wish them back to here?  We want them here because we miss them.  We want them here to share (more) life with us. We want them here so that we can hear their voice, their laugh. We want them here because we miss hugging them.  But when we say “I wish you were here” we are telling ourselves they are not here…and good mourning is all about looking for signs that they are still with us.  Our loved ones are always here with us. We must believe this.

Perhaps our wish should be more about what we are really wanting, really missing.  Maybe the wish is actually for us.  Perhaps we should reword this wish.  Perhaps we should be more specific.  Maybe the wish YOU is really about I. I wish I could hear your voice here.  I wish I could see you here.

With my grief, I have found it helps when I believe to my core, Zane is still here.  Although his (new) spiritual form I wish was not reality, it is a form to which I am still his mother and he is still very much a part of my life. And for this belief to be solid, I can’t say wish you were here.  I must tell myself he is here.  So I have changed my wish.  And at night, when I look out the door, I now whisper, “Love you, miss you, wish I could hug you here”.

D-Day is here

August long weekend is the weekend that calls and cards and well wishers let us know that we are being thought of.  “This is a tough weekend.  We are thinking of you.” I appreciate their acknowledgement of our struggle. 

In our family we call it D-Day.  My daughter chose this word for us.  Anniversary is something that should be happy.  Angelversary was suggested and she indicated none of us will be celebrating that. She wants her brother here, not some invisible Angel. Nope, she said we will call this day D-Day, short for Death Day.  It is accurate, it is blunt, raw and it does not celebrate he is somewhere else.  It simply marks the day to which Zane was ripped out of our lives.

This D-Day marks 2 years. I have no idea how I got here. The pain of missing my son was more intense this last year.  I’m not sure if it is that the shock has worn off or that people expect you to be better.  The first year you spend in fear of how do you get through each holiday, special occasion, ordinary days. But you do.  There is support for you; friends, family, grief counsellor…it’s like the first experiences without your loved are unfathomable but if you can get through ‘the first year’,   you will be ok.

Then the second year comes along and screams at you;

“This is now your life.  Every holiday, every special occasion, every day there will be grief.”  

More strength is required. More anger is felt. The heartache continues to dig deep into your soul.  It is not ok.  Not even a little bit. It is a battle, and you fight to get through each day. And you do.

Maybe this is why, as friends stop by to check in, I smile. Their thought that D-Day is the most difficult day for us illustrates the innocence, the blessing they have to not know or understand the life we have now.  

D-Day will come and go. And I will begin my third term as a grief warrior.

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