Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Tag: #goodmourninggrief (Page 6 of 10)

The Art of Ceremonial Purging

September 17, 2023 /

The gentle, or not so gentle, pushing of time has me looking at the personal belongings of my past, including Zane’s items. It has come time to hold them and decide if their future finds a place in my home or just in my heart. It is not easy, and I have been gentle with this process, taking me almost a full year to sort through decades of personal and family memories.

I began with my childhood report cards my mother kept for me. That was an easy one.  Chuck. I read my old diaries laughing at what was so important to me as a teen and my choice of boyfriends.  A couple of sentiments I wrote down and some things I shared with the people they were about, like a friend who I was jealous of when a childhood boyfriend liked her better. We both chuckled at the truth that here we are, great friends and where was the boy? As I purged, I found that it got harder to decide whether to throw out or keep as the years came closer to the present time.

This can work for any item you are considering, what should I do with this.  Some mementos were easy to say goodbye to. Extra photos, old birthday cards, anniversary cards, done. The kids baby calendars, I took and typed out in a word document all the milestones, giving me a paperless record of their growth. I took pictures of the kids’ artwork, so I have a collage of all their drawings.

Some of the piles took longer, like Zane’s things. His belongings were the hardest.  And to be honest, most of them I couldn’t depart with. I did consolidate some things.  I did find new homes for other things, thanks to his friends.  And a quilt of his favorite t-shirts will be made in the future.

With each pile, I reflected and basked in the memory.  I experienced laughter remembering some aha moments and there were a copious number of tears.  With the items that I decided could not continue travelling with me, I created a process I call ceremonial purging.

With each group of items that I went through, the things I was to throw away I put into one pile. When I was finished with that group, I took the ‘garbage pile’ and spoke to it.  I thanked it for being a part of my life, for giving me lessons and leaving memories behind because of it. I acknowledged that the items making this pile included teachings that were part of my life and who I am today. And then I would lovingly pick it up and kiss the top of the pile.  And without putting it down, I would walk, ceremoniously with good thoughts to the garbage bin.  There, I would give thanks one more time for all it brought me, the good, the bad, and the ugly. And then with a dramatic pitch I would throw the pile into the bin with an AMEN. And I would turn and not look back.

Strange? Maybe. But this ceremony, the disposing of things that at one time were so important to keep, helps let them go. It honors what the items symbolize; my life and the people in it and the gratitude of the blessings that accompanied such.  I feel lighter knowing that the inanimate keepsakes of the past have been loved and sent to the bin with appreciation and that the things still here have a new home of honor.

Too Busy To Grieve

September 10, 2023 /

Our family has experienced eight deaths in less than five months.  I have spent the entire spring and summer in hospitals or hospices, travelling to help plan and attend the celebrations of life for each.  This was on top of my regular work, the planning of our daughter’s upcoming wedding and our annual gathering of Zane’s Death-Day.  Summer is always tough, this year it was brutal.

I have been far too busy with life ‘as is’ to recognize or experience the anticipatory grief that accommodates four of the deaths during this time or the shock of sudden death of the other four loved ones. Our family seems numb. And no wonder, we have been handed a lot and we have dealt with it as best we can. It is no surprise that we have not been feeling quite like ourselves lately. Grief, waiting impatiently to come through has brought emotional outbursts and physical pain to varying degrees and never in unison to combat them effectively.  We continue to soldier on…

No one tells you when loss will come to your door.  Or how.  Or why.  Each loss brings with it, its own personality.  Its own baggage that you must unpack and sort out. Each one takes time, and nothing is linear.

Experiencing multiple deaths at the same time or relatively close together exaggerates the single components of grief. The shock, the disbelief is totally numbing. I have to remind myself, “yes, they are gone. It’s true.” The exertion of energy required to plan how to best honor the loved ones wishes gets confused between each of the deaths.  “Was it this one or that one whose favorite color was blue?”  Why can’t I remember!  The brain fog of multiple deaths is more like a thick swallowing quicksand than a mere memory lapse.

It was my herbalist that unknowingly clarified for me what was happening to my health.  She sent a message that said, “you have had so much to deal with, there has been no time to grieve”. Her words, an expression of compassion hit me like a slap in the face.  Yes, I am doing too much. Self care is the first thing to be dropped when one is too busy. It is easy to overlook the ‘slow down’ signs as we continue to push on. I had disregarded what grief does when ignored.

The first cardinal rule of grief is, give it the space it demands.  Follow its lead. I’ve been pulled from one death to the next allowing NO time for grief.  So, it sits within and festers. It does not care of the many excuses and justifications I give as to why I am not facing my grief. It does not care how hectic I am or how much there is to do.  I read her message again, “…too busy…” One can not be too busy for grief.

I took out the calendar. Five months, eight deaths. This is purpose to stop, to take an extra moment to sit in silence, to honor the ones that have just departed. It is what the soul requires to stay grounded. I must minimize the everyday tasks; they can wait for my sadness to be addressed and held.  Each loved one I have lost deserves their own moment of remembrance. Each deserves thought as to how I will honor them.  Each deserves their own share of my heart.  And my tears. One by one.  I can create a life that gives each of them their own spot to live on, with me and, within me, as I continue my journey. I can give them admiration only if I am not too busy. They deserve the respect of my grief.

The Little Wagon That Stayed

September 3, 2023 /

The news of the Kelowna fires hit home when my girlfriend shared the video of what remained of her house. Nothing. Everything she had worked for went up in flames and melted into a pile of ashes. Even the boat was destroyed.  The only thing that survived was the stone chimney. And poignantly a metal wagon she used to carry wood and such around the lot. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason as to why the fire took certain things and left others untouched.

Of course, my friend is devastated. We talked about the lack of time to save anything. How her mother’s paintings were inside and her other sentimental pieces that are no longer here. She talked about how they were safe until they were not and rushed away watching the fires leap across the road to their area.  She talked about her hope that some miracle would stop the fire from taking all that she loved. We cried and she started to assure me that my grief was greater; no one was hurt or killed in her situation, and I stopped her there. Grief is grief. Loss is loss. Something did die; her beloved possessions and her home that contained decades of memories and happy times with family and friends. This is loss.  Great loss.

With all the losses I have in my life, I have come to realize that each person holds their losses relative to the relationship they had with that person, place, animal, or thing. The depths of love and the pain of grief are the common denominator amongst those who mourn. What or whom you are grieving is a personal detail. I could feel the angst and the anger within my friend as the reality of what had just happened was hitting her. “I will never go back”, she said.

That statement reminded me of my first moments after Zane was killed. “It will never be ok”, I said. I understood what my friend meant by her statement. There is no going back. What she had built over the years in that home, the contents both physical and emotional died with the raging fire. To go back is not possible. It will never be the same and that is not ok. I hugged her.  It was not the time to say that she may change her mind and that maybe there will come a day that she has less anger and more strength and might want to rebuild. But not today.

I focused on the irony of the little wagon that survived.  It shouldn’t have. And yet it did.  Why? A wagon, its purpose is to be filled with things needed or wanted to move from one point to another. It can be used as a tool to take a child or pet for a ride. Its wheels ready to roll in whatever direction you want to go. Small and compact, open aired, a favorite piece of most childhoods. Perhaps it survived as a symbolic gesture for my friend. The Universe gently whispering that there is space for love and hope to help her move away from this terrible disaster to a place where new beginnings await. I think the little wagon might represent tomorrow.

When grief is so fresh, we can miss signs that assure us we will survive. Naturally we are not ok. We can’t see or think or feel past the gut-wrenching despair inexplainable grief brings. That is where my friend is standing right now. I ache for her, knowing that spot all too well. So, for the moment, I will be her eyes to see hope and symbolic concepts that quietly suggest she has not been abandoned by some evil twist of nature but rather held by a universal compassion that understands she is not ok.  Healing can wait until she is ready to pack up her little wagon and move onward.  

My Brother, Wandering but Not Lost

August 27, 2023 /

The relationship I had with my brother was complicated.  I met Wayne when we were adults. He was my father’s son who we connected with through the result of my sister’s search to find him.  He was living in BC with his wife and two sons. My sister sent him a letter asking if he knew we existed and if he was interested in meeting us.  He jumped at the chance, moving his family to Calgary to get to know us, and his father. I went from being the oldest of two to the middle of three.

My brother was a typical big brother. He watched out for my best interests, he was protective, he gave lots of ‘brotherly’ advice.  We drank too much together, hung out together, shared dreams and goals and were there for each other. Somehow, I felt he would always be there for me.  A thing I took for granted.

So, when he fell to depression and struggled to live with chronic pain, I became the sibling who cared for him. Our roles switched to me watching out for him, connecting him to medical and financial resources, worrying about where he would live, how he would manage.  It was stressful to see him change from my big brother to a man who spent more time hiding inside than being outside in the big wild forests he once managed. I became quick tempered with him and focused on his short comings and threw many pity parties as to why I had to take care of him.  The truth is I didn’t have to.  But I did.

When I received the call that my brother had died in his sleep, I set out to do what I have been doing for him for decades. I took care of him. I set up the family, planned the funeral and made the appointment for his ashes to be made into memorial jewelry at his loved one’s request. Only when I was driving the long trip back home from his place, did I start to understand what just happened.

My brother is gone. His physical body only ashes, his legacy unwritten. His loved one’s left comprehending the how and the what now. Complicated relationships bring complicated grief. We are left to feel something when sometimes there is nothing to feel. Or we feel something more than we thought we would. Grief can include guilt, remorse, and regrets.  Complicated grief gives an ugly depth to these feelings.

What I didn’t think of was the why he and I were in these strange roles. What were the lessons we were to learn through this experience? When we are going through something that is hard or unpleasant, why do we race to find a way out rather than sitting quietly to understand the purpose of the hardship. I guess because easy is more comfortable.

If we could face our complicated relationships with more kindness and less complaints, perhaps they would not be as complicated.  What are the lessons to be learned through such experiences? The truth is my brother loved each of us to the best of his capacity. He was there for us, as much as he could be. He created a life such that the last years he did find some joy.  What I didn’t see then was that I was the lucky one to be able to care for him, to return the love I know he felt for me.

With that understanding the tears arrived and I thought of all the things I could have, should have done. His death, another reminder for me that we are all here together for just a very short time. The roles we play in each other’s life should not be criticized but rather celebrated as part of our souls’ learnings.  

It appears, our family soul plan included a brother who came into our lives later with gratitude and hope.  He left the same way. His last texts to me were of how much he would like to have done for me, for my pain.  How he wished he could have saved me from it. An honorable desire that expressed how he truly did want me to be happy. How can I ask for more than what he could give? And what he gave was love. His version, his way, but still love and that can’t be ignored.

Wayne, thank you for loving me. Send messages, my sweet brother, of how we can remember and honor the life you shared with us. And may you enjoy riding horses in the fields of heaven.

“The First Call from Heaven” by Mitch Albom

August 20, 2023 /

Most often you will find me in the non-fiction section looking for different ways to manage life. I have always enjoyed the self-help section and living with grief, it becomes your go-to aisle for tips and tricks on how to survive and maybe even flourish.  So, I am not sure what led me to stray into the fiction aisle and pick up Mitch Albom’s book “The First Phone Call from Heaven”, but I did.  And I was not disappointed.

Mitch is best known for his best seller, “Tuesdays with Morrie” and his new novel has the same sentimental components of human compassion. This story, of a paranormal event in a small Michigan town has its’ residents believing that the dead are calling them from heaven.  The whole town believes it is a miracle and news of this travels bringing outsiders to visit. All except for one resident, a discredited pilot named Sully.  The story centers on Sully and why he does not believe. He sets out to prove the town wrong.

The story is about loss and unanswered questions and the anger that grief brings. Sully’s character is relatable; you feel his pain. You can understand his disbelief, your brain knows that the dead are not calling. Yet, as you read this book, you are filled with a hope that Sully is wrong.  

Mitch writes, “What do you do when the dead return?  It is the thing people most fear-yet, in some cases, most desire.” That is the key to why this book is a page turner. When you live with loss, your number one wish is to hear or hold or see your loved one again.  Just one more time. Mitch’s story is all about that and the reader gets drawn into thinking ‘what if this was possible?  Oh, God let this be possible.’

The story’s plot is one of mystery and the characters seem to come alive leaving the reader to feel that they are in this small town and witnessing this phenomenon first-hand. As one who says I don’t have time for fiction, this book is a favorite I could read again. 

I won’t provide any spoiler alerts but let’s just say that the end has a twist that leaves you sitting there, holding the book, and not wanting to close it.

Celebrating Your Birthday Without You

August 13, 2023 /

The birthday party is set.  Balloons have been ordered, gifts wrapped, invites confirmed and menu organized.  We are ready to celebrate Zane’s birthday.  The only thing missing is him. This is his 32nd birthday and his 5th we have celebrated with him present only in spirit.

This birthday is an annual tradition, requested by his friends at the time of his death.  They did not wish to acknowledge the day he was killed but would not miss celebrating the day he was born. And thus, each year, our family has arranged a party, complete with games, food, gifts & always a shot of Jameson.

I was having lunch with a mother who lost her son six years ago and I asked her what they did to celebrate his birthday.  I am always looking for ideas. She said, “Nothing. We don’t.” I wasn’t sure how to respond. What do you mean you don’t? “It’s just too painful”, she said. That hit me hard.

Each year our family plans how to celebrate Zane and it is painful. We laugh and cry while we brainstorm and at the end of the day, we all crash in our own way.  It is why each of us still takes the day after off work. We know we will be a mess. But before that day, we put on our mask and we gather the group and we toast to the soul who has impacted our lives, then, and now. I never thought there was an option.

I’m not saying either way is the right way.  Grief is an individual journey. But there was a tiny part of me that thought, what would it be like to not face our pain, to choose to do nothing. Friends have told me that how our family handles death is unique.  They have expressed that they can only imagine if it was them, they would be hidden away.  They would not be bringing in the masses and turning up the music.

Our family knows of no other way. Perhaps it is because we have some Irish blood in us. Perhaps it is because we have experienced more losses than others and earlier than others. Perhaps it has become a way of surviving. For us. I had never questioned why we approach death the way we do, until recently.

What I will say is that we are told by Zane’s friends that opening our home and inviting them in to share stories, to laugh, to cry, to remember, is what grounds them. We are a safe place for each of them to bring their grief and dance with it.

For me, I feel my son when I am in the presence of his friends. I learn about times he shared that I heard of but didn’t know the details. I feel his energy through their hugs. Their personalities bring my son’s attitude to life, and I can hear him with them. His essence is alive in the air.

And I think those are good enough reasons to pour a drink and turn the bubble machine on.

Happy Birthday Pooh-Bear. You are missed, loved & celebrated.

To Zane, on the Fifth Anniversary

August 6, 2023 /

Dear Zane,

We are sitting together,

on an urban patio

under the hot summer sun

Cold drink in our hand.

We are laughing,

Sharing stories of our separate adventures,

comparing notes of the latest antics

of our family members

Your sunglasses catch my reflection,

I see me smiling,

the joy of being with you

And that I am grateful for.

This summer marks 5 years

The summer you went to your favorite place,

Never to return

The summer that sent us to hell

It froze us in our grief,

Imprisoned us to the past

It has questioned our purpose,

challenged us to survive

Which is what we have done

And that I am grateful for.

I imagine what you might be doing

if fate had been different-

A writer, a model, a photographer

Even strangers tell me

You are unforgettable.

And that I am grateful for.

5 years has taught me that time will not diminish

the impact you brought, the lessons you taught.

Our family remains steadfast,

Remembering you, celebrating you,

Keeping your essence alive

And that I am grateful for.

Sending Tango to His Next Adventure

July 30, 2023 /

My daughter said it best.  He was the love of my life. Understandably, husband was working, kids had their own activities, I was the one left to walk, feed and care for our little beast. For 17 years he was my companion, my confidante, my unconditional love. He got me out walking each day, every day. He helped me consume my dinner plate; it is customary to cook 2 pieces of fish as he will surely eat one. He slept next to me, listened to me and yes, he talked back. He made me laugh and when I cried, he was there to dry the tears with his tiny pink tongue. I had great joy living with this dog.  I would never be prepared to say goodbye.

Then, ready, or not, for either of us, the day came. And my focus changed from not having him leave to how will he leave.  I would not have him in a sterile office that caused him anxiety and was filled with no familiar smells.  No, it had to be at home.  Surrounded by family and the love we have for him. Finding a vet available to do this at the last minute proved difficult until the phone rang, and a soft Spanish accent identified herself as Dr. Paty.  She suggested she could help.  “I’ll give him a little cocktail,” she said. I loved that term, rather than the word sedation. She continued, “then, we surround him with love and together, we send him to heaven for his next adventure”.  I loved how she described euthanasia. It was more about departing this realm.  She spoke my language.  She got me.  “How soon can you be here?” I asked.  “I will be there in thirty minutes.”

Our daughter and her fiancé arrived, and the family sat with Tango as he received his cocktail. Dr. Paty suggested giving him a treat while she did this to distract him.  I brought out a dog treat and she said to me, “Mama, that is the treat you want to give him today?”  I giggled.  He got a stick of cheese to eat, accompanied by a stick of pepperoni.  We moved him to a fluffy bed the good doctor had made and laid him down. He cuddled into my leg and rested his head on it. He looked up into my eyes and I leaned over and whispered, “it’s ok. You’re going to go see Zane. You’re going to a place where you can run without your leash on and eat all the cheese puffs you want!” I rubbed his head softly. He was not afraid. He cuddled into me and rested.

When we all had said our goodbye’s, Dr. Paty gave him his final needle and started to listen to his heartbeat. I felt a murmur in my ear and turned to see whose hand was on my shoulder. There was no one there, and then my heart knew. Zane had arrived to take his beloved dog home.  I nodded. Dr. Paty said, “he is gone now”. Our sweet man-dog, our precious little canine. His head still on my leg.  His warm body still pressed against me.

Dr. Paty said, “I’ll now wrap him up like a burrito”.  We chuckled at how fitting it was for him to be wrapped up like a favorite food.  She placed the little burrito in my arms.  It was like holding a baby, coddled in a warm sleeping bag.  I squeezed him and brought him to the car to be transported to the funeral home.

The result of losing someone you love is the same, whether it is a human or a pet.  A loved one is a loved one and grief is grief. As with any other massive loss, my heart broke, the tears have not stopped. Everything reminds me of him. I can hear his little toenails walking across the hardwood floor.  I look at the clock and think it’s time for his walk. I start dinner and look down as if somehow, he will still be there waiting for a piece of food to fall into his mouth. I cannot remove his toys or his leash or his bowls.  I can’t even clean the floor. I don’t want any proof of his existence to be removed.  I am at a loss. A total and complete loss.  My purpose seems bleak, my world seems dark and my heart screams for one more touch of his paw on my foot to say, “here I am mama. I am not gone.”   

I have had years of practice dealing with grief and yet I find myself at ground zero. The pain is sharp and the loneliness of the journey large. I am trying to convince myself that comfort can be found in knowing that we did the right thing.  And we did. I understand this loss is not the same as other losses. I understand that he was not going to get better.  I understand that it was an old dog who had lived a great life. My brain gets all that. But my heart does not. My love for him was deep and thus, as we know, the grief will also be deep. The small, frail ray of hope that I will survive another loss is now the piece that I hold on to with each breath.

I read, if a dog is loved so deeply by its owner, then it will return to earth in human form as its reward for being a good dog. Tango will be back.

“Mourning has Broken” by Erin Davis

July 23, 2023 /

A friend gave me a book to read to which she felt might inspire joy in me.  The story, “Mourning Has Broken” was written by Erin Davis, a mother who lost her 24-year-old daughter. Erin was a popular radio broadcaster and was in Jamaica when she received the news. Her sharing of what happened and the events that followed in her journey were so different than mine that it made for a surreal reading.

Erin’s connection to the world through her radio channel was a gift to express her pain and share with her dedicated listeners what was happening.  She had her own social media through this that I wished we all had. Her story included reflections of times as a family, with her daughter, the challenges of finding out what happened that caused her death, the sharing of how she self-medicated, and her relationship with her husband.  Her story was her own, and I appreciated her openness.  She also included a few tangents related to others that I had to reread trying to understand how this was a part of her story. 

I did relate to her reaction to an acquaintance comparing his loss of a dog six months prior to her pain of losing her only daughter. She innocently asked him if he would get another dog and he sharply replied, “Are you going to have another child?” Ouch. Proof that no one escapes dumb comments from those trying to compare grief.  Her sense of humor I enjoyed. She writes, “I bet they get another dog.”

At the end of the book, she is inspired to have a spiritual interview with her daughter related to if Erin is finding joy.  Erin admits pure joy may forever be elusive.  But she does find joy in her grandson and her work and her marriage. Simple things, that some of us don’t have; she encourages us to find our own joy.

I am appreciative to be at a point in my own journey to be able to read about such a different experience and value it for that. It inspired me to think about joy and what can I do to increase that emotion in my daily life. Erin lives in a world so different than mine and yet, we are connected through the understanding of life without your child. We are women who share the commonalities of honoring our loved one, looking for signs from them and searching for joy in this life.

My Son, Larger Than Life

July 16, 2023 /

Each year since Zane was killed, I have tried to do something to honor him. He has a business degree I advocated for as he was only one semester short of graduating. I started this blog in honor of his love of writing. We have started a mindful photography program and a bursary in his name. What could I do to mark his upcoming fifth year…. five seems like a gigantic milestone.

Then I came across a marketing campaign for Pierson’s Funeral Services.  A fresh campaign called “Life by” which posts a larger-than-life picture that captures the spirit of the person. The first one I saw was “Life by Mary”. She was a woman in her golden years in a wet suit on a beach carrying a surfboard.  I wanted to know her. She looked like she loved life and would make you laugh.  I enjoyed looking for these billboards.  Each picture told a story of the person celebrated. So, I reached out to Michael, a friend, and the owner of Pierson’s to discuss an idea.

“What if your campaign also captured those individuals that passed way before their time”, I asked Michael. What might the impact be of someone seeing your ad of a young adult? “If ever that was an idea, perhaps Zane could be a model”, I suggested. And Michael agreed.

He introduced me to (another) Michael, the artistic zealot behind Make More Creative.  We talked about Zane and his personality and his antics and the reason why I would like him to be in the campaign.  I shared pictures we had of Zane and left Michael to produce his magic. When he called to invite me to his office to see what he designed, I brought Jon, who was unaware of this meeting, and introduced him.  I said, “Jon, I would like you to meet Michael, he is Zane’s modeling agent.”  Tears of joy followed.

With Payton’s input too, our family selected the picture of choice. When the time came, we were invited for the unveiling.  Our son, larger-than-life, covering the entire back of a Calgary City Transit bus! Words are unavailable to describe the emotions that flooded us. The absolute honor, a gift, given to our family to share ‘life by Zane’ with the people in the city that he was born and raised in.  A City he loved. 

We opted not to tell anyone. We thought what a surprise it would be to have his friends driving along and spot it. Without disappointment, we have had feedback from those who have seen him.  “My heart skipped a beat”.  “A perfect picture and right at Stampede, his favorite time of year, how cool.”

It has become a game to check the back of the bus passing to see if Zane is there. It is so much fun to be driving and spot him.  It feels as if he is in town. That big contagious smile.  That happy-go-lucky sense of play captured in a photo and now travelling through town for all to see.  I wonder what Zane might say.  He was never one that needed to be the center of attention. But he did bring the party and that is the essence one feels when they see my son, larger than life!

Big thanks from my heart to both Michael’s for making this possible. How lucky are we that you two are part of our tribe.

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