Tag: #grief (Page 1 of 9)

Message In a Pot of Soup

August 25, 2024 / Mama Fish / 0 Comments

Since the beginning of time, there has been an intuitive need to feed those in mourning. The day we were told Zane was killed, our house was flooded with family and friends who brought food and not just for us. No, for the first week, we had at least thirty people in and out and someone made it a priority to always have food available. I only recall this looking back. During that week I was in such shock that the single thing I remembered was that my son was gone.

Now looking back this is what I remember. The first day a friend was the one who started the food run by telling me that it was dinner, and we needed to feed everyone. I said I wasn’t hungry. She and my sister went to Safeway and brought back platters. After that, the casseroles started coming. Every dish was eaten. One dish I remembered was from a friend who was a chef of a local dining club. His chicken pot pie was large enough to feed the masses. The top crust of the pie he had artistically carved a design in the puff pastry. On the bottom of the topping was a rooster, a hen and a chick. At the top was another chick. This one had angel wings.

We had friends bring over chairs and tents and tables while we went to ‘identify the body’. We had friends bring cases of wine and pop. We had friends think of what we might need like toilet paper and brought those staples over. Nothing was left to be bought. Each morning a friend brought us a tea and my nephews wife brought a protein shake, knowing I was not eating. My nephew asked me where Tango’s food was. I forgot to feed the dog. Tango had a homemade menu, so my nephew bought the groceries and cooked his meals. Everyone was mourning but they rallied to ensure that our family was held up.

I suppose that is the subconscious idea behind bringing a dish. Food is the thing which sustains life. And when sickness, sadness or death arrives, bringing something to those suffering illustrates the compassion and support and strength you are offering them. It is why when a friend is sick or experiencing grief, of any kind, I have the urge to pull out the soup pot, chop the vegetables and drop off a jar and a loaf of bread for them. It is my debt for all that was given to us during that time six years ago.

And there is something therapeutic about making a dish for a loved one. It is mindful to think about them as you chop and slice. Sprinkled with sage, thyme or another spice, it is also sprinkled with love. Quietly stirring, I think of their pain. I remember my own. With each soup I have made, there are tears. I blame the onions. But we know better. When finished, I drop it off at their door, sending a text message that it is there. “Call me if you need anything.”

I recently made two pots of soup for friends. Each for a different reason. One was ill and the other is caring for her son who is dying. Part of bringing over a dish is that we don’t know what else to do. It is our way of trying to help what sometimes can’t be helped. It is a gesture that we are aware of their pain and wish we could make things better. That is the message that is stirred into each pot of soup.

Your Spirit at Stampede

July 21, 2024 / Mama Fish

Stampede has always been a unique holiday for our family. Especially Zane whose sister now carries the torch and makes him proud by spending almost every night there enjoying the food, the music and the fireworks. Part of our stampede tradition is going as a family for one day of games, shopping, wine and trying one weird food dish. This year we added a stop to Nashville North. Something we typically leave to the kids to enjoy but this year I felt I needed to go for just one drink. Turned into two. I came home tired and overheated and under the fan took out my notebook to write to Zane.

Dear Zane,

We just got home from stampede. A great time where I had an urge to go to Nashville North. Somehow, I knew you were there. I needed to see you. And I did. In the middle of the tent there was a spot where you would have stood, and the music was so loud that the beat was felt in my heart. I stood there feeling your spirit, strong, I could envision you dancing into the night, the mood, the energy and I knew you were here. It was great!

Oh, I know how much you enjoyed this annual festival. It brings tears of how much you loved it. How happy I was to have your spirit there to enjoy it with me. We love our signs and this year they were loud and clear. I saw the feathers, the donuts, the moon, the sky and stars. I could feel you with us.

2024 is the sixth, (magic number six), that you have been at stampede spiritually. Maybe that is why Nashville North was imperative. Maybe that’s why the wine was Rodney STRONG. Maybe that’s why the food catered to all my favorites, like macaroni and cheese poutine. I’m not suggesting you orchestrated this. I’m suggesting that the Universe celebrated you hard tonight. And invited us to be with you.

Sweet poo bear, you are SO here. So alive that strangers come to me knowing we are connected, and they feel your energy. You rocked stampede. You rocked Nashville North. This is your party and will always be your party. Good to be with you.

Every year the stampede feels different, but each year it brings with it a spiritual awakening that I recognize only after the day is done. This year the mood seemed lighter, and my cares stepped aside. Maybe the energy of thousands of people together to laugh and live in the moment is contagious. Maybe my ability to connect to my sons’ spirit is stronger. Whatever the reason, the veil seemed nonexistent this day. This year, grief took a moment to hold hands with me, and together we celebrated Zane’s spirit and his enthusiasm for life.

Time, the Complex Accomplice

June 16, 2024 / Mama Fish

I received a picture from my friends’ husband, of her tombstone. I replied how beautiful it was and, as I knew her urn was not yet placed, asked if he would be placing it soon. He said yes, and added what date that would be. I stared at my phone. The date reminded me of what he said when she passed. “I’ll keep her with me for a year, and then lay her to rest, beside her son.” It will be a year this July.

In life, time is a friend and an enemy. They say time softens grief (to which I have yet to experience) and they say time reminds you of how fleeting this life is. I know she passed; I was there. But a year ago? How can it be that already? Her family has gone through the ‘firsts’-first birthday, holiday, anniversary, and they are now coming up to their second year. To which we all know when living with grief, is when time plays the enemy more often than not. I am so sad. This is life with grief. A continuum of what we know, the pain of loss and the reality of traditions starting, ending or modified.

Sometimes grief is ignored around what is true because it muddies the happy moments. Then time prompts us it isn’t going away through a calendar of events now changed forever or added to because of our loss. Sometimes grief is faced with courage and strength because the counting of time tallies the days we have survived. Sometimes grief shows up unexpectedly and the struggle is real and time whispers, “breathe, this too shall pass.” Time can be argued by science, whether it is real or not. But for sure, it is measurable. Grief warriors become experts at measuring time.

How fast time flies is a statement everyone understands. Because everyone has, in one way or another, experienced this. In grief, time becomes more dimensional with more substance of how it controls you, and, oddly, how it supports you. Life gets divided into sections before loss, and after loss and then subdivided between the number of years. Time is very real.

Yet, we begin to see many signs that our loved ones are still here with us and that gives depth to the idea that time is only on our realm. The notion that our loved ones defy time and can stay with us for all time is a comforting belief.

In any case, time makes grief very complex, as with my friend. How has she been gone for a year when my heart still feels that a summer drink in her backyard is a possibility. Time reminds me I had that once, I can have it still, just that it will be different. The yin and yang of time is the same as grief. Bittersweet. And the only control we truly have with time is how we choose to value it.

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.

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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.

Old Blue Eyes

January 21, 2024 / Mama Fish

There was a holiday season, a long time ago, where we visited two friends often. Then health, travel and kids took priority and we saw each other less. Every time we got together it was like picking up where we left off. That is the way of good friends. Time means nothing. Until it does.

The last time I saw our friend, we were walking Tango. He pulled up beside us and we chatted about life, the age of our dog, the battles we all were going through with our health. He was concerned about my cancer; how my recovery was going. He didn’t want to talk about his own battle with cancer. His health “was pickled with the scotch I drink” he’d laugh. His blue eyes twinkled. They were always filled with a light, a love for those around him. It earned him the nickname, ‘old blue eyes.’ “We must get together soon,” I said as Tango pulled on his leash to let me know it was time to keep going. “Yes, we will”, he waved goodbye.

The news of his death came as a shock. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Another friend I somehow felt would be around forever. Or at the very least until we had that next drink we were planning.

His physical absence will be missed by a very large community. His soft demeanour, sense of humor and love for family and friends attracted a big group of admirers that relished in his company. We were lucky to be a part of that. He is the man that sent a card to us, each birthday, death anniversary and holiday of Zane’s, letting us know he will never forget him and how lucky we are to be loved by our son. I treasured his kind gesture, honoring our son in such a tender, personal way. That was so typical of the kindness he showed. He was always just a call away and if the porch light was on, the door was open to come in and enjoy a drink.

His passing hit us all hard. Even my daughter burst into tears. That’s how special he is. That’s how deep the impact of his friendship is. We are taught that grief is the price we pay for love. And as we sit quietly together, grief joins us. And yet, somehow, the love our friend had of this life spills over us, washing us with a sense, a reminder, that the game is not over, only the course has changed.

“In golf and life, it is the follow through that makes the difference.” My sweet friend, you were a sure hit, making a difference as your soul gathered many to enjoy the beauty of this life. May we continue to see you at tee time!

Switching Up the Holiday Outlook

December 3, 2023 / Mama Fish

I’d be amiss if I didn’t mention that this month is Drunk & Drugged Driving Prevention month. Last year 40,000 loved ones perished due to someone choosing to drive impaired. This number does not touch anywhere near the real number of those devastated; the many more hundreds of thousands effected by such loss. The dreams and plans and hopes, smashed with no chance of ever being the same again. It happened to us. But I’m not going there. This is the Christmas season.

The holidays are a time of hope and miracles and love and faith. I want that. I want to replace the sound of a busy mall with the crackling of a fire. I want the smells of gingerbread and mulled wine filling my home. I want my heart to feel the quiet peaceful morning before the demands of the season come rushing in to take over. I want that Hallmark truth about this season. Each year, I believe I have tried to make it special and ease the pain of Zane not being here. And each New Year, I debrief with a sigh and a shrug that next Christmas will be different. So why do I think this pattern will ever change? Because I need it to. That’s why.

Sometimes our grief permeates into a sadness that we become too comfortable with to change. This season brings an excuse to hold tight to our grief. “The holidays are the heaviest time of year for those mourning” we are told. I don’t disagree, but I am starting to think that I might be turning this ‘fact’ into an excuse. Should I not be trying harder to get along with my grief if this season is as tough as we know it to be? When I look at the list of all things to practice easing grief, those practices go out the window with the common pressures of the oh-too-commercial of a season. Maybe I should work harder on bringing the magic of the season forward and ignoring the business side of Christmas.

My daughter texted me, “I want Zane to run up the stairs and open his stocking with me”. She is feeling the apprehension of the season’s loud message that we are to be with the ones we love. When that is impossible, to do what we used to do before our loved ones left, we need to switch up the holiday outlook. I am going to try this. For my daughter. For Zane. For me. I am going to embrace the real reason why this time of year is to be celebrated. I am going to take my grief and show it a good time.

This year I am going to focus on what can I do to celebrate, include, honor Zane over the holidays. I’m going to take a day each week to do something that brings the holidays home. With Zane. He loved to “rock the first candy-cane of the season”. He loved taking pictures of the bright lights. He loved snuggling in his blanket with a good book or a great show. He loved to connect with friends over a drink and bake cookies to share. He loved to build a snowman. He knew how to stop and smell the roses. I need more of that. I need more Zane in my life.

I know that being still raises our vibration, our awareness that those we love are with us. Perhaps that is the practice I need this holiday season. Whether it eases my sadness or not, I am aware that it will never be as we want, so finding a bittersweet compromise might improve my holiday debrief in the New Year.

When Tears Arrive

November 26, 2023 / Mama Fish

We were told by our cable supplier that our modem will no longer be functioning after the new year, so we needed to upgrade. My husband planned for the service installer to come by. I listened as he told me what to expect. It was all for the better except when he said, “you will lose your recordings.”

I stared at him blankly. I thought of all the Hallmark movies taped that I was enjoying. They would be gone. I thought of all Jon’s Sunday morning shows. They would be gone. And then I remembered Zane’s recordings that I kept. Seeing them always gave me a sense of peace, pretending some how he would one day watch them. They would be gone too. And I gasped.

“What?”, I uttered, choking back the tears. He repeated, “there will be no more recordings. You will have to record again.” But Zane was not here to record. How could I do this? The poor young man had no idea why I was upset about my recordings about to be erased and yet there was nothing he or I could do. The upgrade was mandatory. I took a deep breath and said, “Ok”.

Jon arrived at this time, and I made an excuse I had an errand to run and left him to oversee the upgrade. As I got into my car I was thinking, “upgrade, this is far from an upgrade for me”. It was a step back into my grief having one less thing of Zane’s. I drove to the park and took a walk along the path that I had walked Tango so many times before and I began to sob.

I wasn’t prepared for this reaction. Sometimes grief makes no sense at all. Why did I have such a response to this change, this necessary technological progress? Perhaps it is the start of the holiday season where we get weepier. Or maybe it is all the work of the busy needy season, and I am overtired. Or maybe, it’s just more loss of things I love and more unwanted change arriving for me to face.

As I pondered why I was so upset, I let myself continue to weep. As I walked, the sun in my face, dried my tears. The silence of the park let my mind relax. There could be one or a combination of reasons why we are triggered and reduced to tears. All things that are about our loved ones are important. We are the protector of each reminder they were alive, and we do not want any of it to be deleted. The recordings, which would literally be erased, were a symbolic reminder that life is and will never be as I had wished. This simple conclusion came to me by giving myself permission to have a good cry. I returned to the car, fixed my make-up, and gently went on with my plans for the day.

We know that emotional tears release oxytocin and endogenous opioids, otherwise called endorphins. I believe that tears are the souls’ way of exposing the shadows of our pain. At the end of a long cry, we are left with our true sadness and with a quiet sensation of courage. It’s surprising how many tears are within us that spill over when needed to restore our sprit so that we can carry on. Strength is found in the salt of our tears.

A Tree Sent to Heaven

May 21, 2023 / Mama Fish

Every Albertan remembers the grade one tradition where your child is given a sapling to take home and plant. Both my children received one. Both planted their little tree in a chosen place in our yard. My daughter cared for her tree for a limited amount of time, moving on to her next project and the tree perished.

Zane was different. He would come home each day and nurture his tree. He covered it with a large coffee tin so the heavy snows would not break it. He talked to it, sprayed it, and fertilized it and it grew into a majestic white spruce that we hung feeders and tiny houses on to welcome the birds and squirrels. After Zane passed, we hung Christmas ornaments and tied ribbons with wishes on it in his honor. The tree was more than a tree; it was a connection to the love my son had and shared.

At a recent community block party, our old neighbor told us of how the new owners were caring for our house in a way that we would feel good about. He went on to say how they had opened the yard by removing a few of the trees and it looked great. “Which ones?”, I asked. As he began to describe the locations of the trees they had removed, I kept pleading in my head, “not Zane’s, not Zane’s” …but it was Zane’s. I glanced at my husband as the tears came and whispered to him, “I just can’t…” and I turned and left, leaving him to tell our neighbor why his wife was a sudden mess.

Our neighbor apologized and hugged me. How was he to know. It was ok. But it wasn’t. I went home that evening and cried myself to sleep. There is nothing I could have done, there was no moving this massive evergreen. The house was not ours any longer. I understand. But I don’t like it. How ironic this tree was roughly Zane’s age before its life was chopped down. It was another thing lost that was my sons. It was another reminder that things have changed forever. It was another catalyst to bringing my grief to the forefront.

When things like this happen, we need to find hope that it will be ok. Even when we know it isn’t. We can look at loss from the dark or the light side. I tend to look at it from the dark first. I give myself time to sit with the pain, permission to feel mad and sad and hopeless. And then when my tears have subsided, I look at it from the light side. And if there isn’t one, I try to create one.

With Zane’s tree, I have decided to believe that somewhere on the other realm, Zane has a space that he adores and that he rejuvenates in, and that spot now has his beautiful beloved tree. Beside him. With all the wishes we had tied on it and all the admiration we have for him clinging to each needle so that he can see, touch, and feel how very much he is loved and missed.

“Nightfall to Daybreak” by Sally Walls

March 26, 2023 / Mama Fish

In the first few days after Zane was killed, a friend dropped off a book for me to read, “Nightfall to Daybreak”. She said she knew the family and they too had lost a son. When I was ready, I should read the book. It was written by the mother, Sally Walls, who tells the story of how she was thrown into the grief community. I first opened it a few months after and quickly closed it and placed it in a box. It was unreadable. It was far too painful.

I found it when we moved to the condo and opened it up again. The crisp white pages and the large, typed font made it an easy read. The content was not as easy. Sally Walls writes about the love and loss of her 18-year-old son Davis. She writes of the anticipation of his birth and the joy of being his mother, watching him grow into a respectful young man and watching him graduate. She writes about the week after his graduation, when the police came to her door to let her know he was killed in a bicycle-vehicle fatality. She shares the anguish and despair of her journey with quotes, biblical verses, facts and beautiful comparisons of her grief to her reality.

Sally’s friend sent her a collection of beach glass. She writes, “Each broken piece has been smoothed over time by the journey it’s been on. I scoop them all into my hands and close my eyes. I run my fingers over them. I don’t hurry. There are no sharp edges. I sense that I will be able to handle the brokenness, given time. I will be able to pick up the pieces. We will put life back together again, like a mosaic.”

She writes of driving home with Davis as a small baby and avoiding a near fatal crash that sent her a clear message then. “You and your baby were spared tonight.” She tells the story of Davis sharing with her a beloved character, Leonidas, a leader possessing extreme courage in the face of death and wondering why he would share this just weeks before his death. Were these premonitions?

This book is not for the newly grieving. It is raw and real and hits your heart hard. Sally is one of us. Many of her thoughts and actions echo mine. By the end of the book, I felt a comradery with this woman I knew of but had never met. Inside the cover of my copy, my friend had her sign. Sally writes, “We are holding our hands around your brokenness.”

We are told that sharing our story, when we are able, is a responsibility. Share your story and you might help someone find their own. “Nightfall to Daybreak” is filled with supportive messages that one or more of them you can hold unto. Thank you, Sally.