Tag: #grief (Page 2 of 9)

“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.

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.

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.

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.

Candle Lighting Day 2022

December 11, 2022 / Mama Fish

I am to light a candle today

In honor of, in remembrance of you

As if somehow not lighting it

I would forget you.

I have lit a candle every day,

Over two thousand days.

I light this candle,

In honor of you, of us

Of our life together.

I light this candle,

As an offering of hope

That you may see it and know

I am thinking of you.

I light this candle because

You are loved.

The flicker reminding me

How you enjoyed dancing through life,

Taking in all its’ pleasures.

I light this candle because it is like the brilliance of you,

How your smile shined, and your laugh lit up the room.

I light this candle because the moment

Reminds me that its scent, the smoke flickering

Is carried into the heavens, to you,

As a sort of spiritual connection.

I light this candle because its glow is warm, like your hug.

I light this candle because I am your mom

And I want to do something for you,

So, I light it.

Not just on candle lighting day

But every day.

The Necklace

November 20, 2022 / Mama Fish

I have been purging the many bins we put in storage when we moved. These were items we did not use but one day might. They are items once loved, but not anymore or gifts we received and keep although we don’t need or want any longer. It is easier to store than to purge. Then there are the bins that contain the kids’ baby stuff. It’s these bins that get me. Especially Zane’s.

I was the mother who scrapbooked their entire life. One book for the school years for each child, another of life in general. I had a photo album for each of random pictures they might enjoy. The intent was to give it to them to share with their mates and their children.

I giggle when I go through Payton’s. I put aside mementos to share with her. I pack up precious dresses that she once wore, for her (future) baby. It is melancholy but a sweet melancholy. She is here to share these memories with me and to hold the physical reminders in her hands.

With Zane’s, each quote, I read of the things he used to say to me, I begin to cry. In a calendar of his 4^th year, I had recorded on Mother’s Day that Zane hugged me. He said, “this is your first gift Mimi, do you like it?” And then the following month, I said to him I was wondering what to get his father for Father’s Day. And he answered, “what about a hug? You liked yours”. Each of these quotes, each picture, I am flooded with what was happening at that time. All the joy and wonder of his wee life. His favorite camp shirt, his teddy bears, his beloved mickey mouse jacket.

He would not take that jacket off; it was his favorite. The soft brushed cotton now feels like silk with all the years of wear. It is still in great shape. I hold it up. Was he really this small once? And as I bring it in to hug it, I can feel him and from deep inside me escapes a wail of pain and the flood gates open wide.

As I am bent over the bin in tears, something shiny catches the corner of my eye. It is a silver box. I put the jacket down, wipe my face with the back of my hand and reach in to pick it up. I open it and find a necklace. It is a silver heart with turquoise insert. I recognize it. The memory of Zane comes alive, and I am sitting next to him. He is showing me this necklace. He is in his early teens. I asked who’s it for. He says, “I’m not sure. I thought it was for my girlfriend but that’s not it.” I said it was pretty and anyone would enjoy it. He smiled.

I never knew what happened to that necklace. He never said. And I don’t know how it ended up in a bin of his baby things. Did Zane know that there would come a day that I would be missing him as I went through his baby things, to find this piece which would bring me comfort in that moment? I am sure he did not. But he did know then that he was meant to buy that necklace and he did. He knew not who it was for but that it was for someone, and he was comfortable buying it knowing only that. He believed the answer would reveal itself in due time. That was all he knew. And it was good enough.

Sitting alone, holding this piece of jewelry, I smiled. Maybe it was for me. We just didn’t know it at that time. Maybe the Universe gave Zane an intuitive push to buy and hide the necklace in his baby things. Maybe Zane did, thinking someday, the two of us would find it when we were going through his things together. The Universe knew better. I put it on and smiled. “Thanks Zaney, for showing your love in so many magical ways.”

Letting Love Ease Grief

November 13, 2022 / Mama Fish

I’m not sure who dictates how much goes onto one person’s plate, but I wish they’d recalculate. This year has been brutal on our family. The loss of Dan, my cancer, the loss of Kim, the life and death health struggles of close friends, and now two more friends want to check out.

We heard of their desire back in the spring. Both suffer major health ailments and life is no longer the quality they hope for. After much conversation, we convinced them to investigate moving back to Calgary into an assisted living community and enjoy our health care support as well as the love of their family and friends here. They liked that idea. I was relieved. We found a place and made plans to fly them out to see it. These are lifetime friends who, when we are together, none of us remember that our health is crappy, and we are in pain. There is laughter and shared memories and time flies in their company. Their friendship is therapeutic. This was a good solution for however many days or years they have left here. Then we got a call from their son. Assisted death is back on the table. Why?

A cat scan showed two more tumors in our friend. He is done. He is too tired to struggle for the slim chance that he may last a couple more years. His life has been a good one and he wishes to go out on his own. She feels the same way about her health, although hers is better. I think it is that she does not want to be here without him. They are two peas in a pod and have never been separated.

There is a part of me that gets this and then there is the selfish side of me that screams, NO. I don’t want anymore loss in my life. Especially when it is chosen. I don’t want to have to be at another funeral and taking care of estates and personal wills (we are the executors) and selling their home. I am sick. I don’t have enough energy to get out of bed lately. I can’t do this. Grief steps in and blinds me. It zaps the energy and the understanding that I have friends who are suffering and want to end it.

Grief is a personal journey, and can be at times, a selfish journey. When it is loud, it consumes us to think only of ourselves; that life is unfair, we are hard done by and why me. It is at this time, that we must stop and let love come in. Love takes grief into its arms and holds it. It whispers, “everything will be ok. We got this.” It opens our eyes to a larger understanding and stirs up empathy within our hearts to listen and not judge. Love can calm grief.

So, I sit in my chair, and I listen to love. I think of the many wonderful memories I will always have. I feel gratitude that I have these friends and I ask for strength to be with them when they carry out their wishes. I feel my grief lessen and the energy I will need peeks over the distant horizon of my own anguish. I tell grief that I am aware it does not leave and thank it for momentarily letting love ease its sharp edges.

The Cloak of Grief is Anger

October 2, 2022 / Mama Fish

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.”

Keys to Grief

September 18, 2022 / Mama Fish

Grief comes in many forms and many levels of intensity. Grief is a result of loss and there are losses almost daily that we accept, sometimes without even recognizing it. Until they accumulate and you are not feeling well or can’t focus and not understanding why. Such was this week.

We drove to British Columbia to see friends who are not aging well. In our conversation with them I heard the loss of hope in my friend as he talked about not having the capacity to be the person he once was. No one likes bad change. And his physical issues are not good. But as we spoke, I realized that sometimes we have expectations to be the person we were decades ago, or days ago, from what life has handed us. Adaptation is key to happiness.

We came home to news that another close friend had stumbled and thinking it was a stroke, his children took him to the hospital. What they found was a large cancerous tumor in his brain. He underwent surgery the next day and the doctors have told us there will be a long road to recovery and a much shorter life expectancy than we had thought would be his life plan. Hope is key to resiliency.

Over cocktails, another friend told me she was diagnosed with cancer and will be having her toe amputated in hopes that it has not spread. We shared feelings about the realism of aging and how everything happens for a reason. God only knows what the reasons are this week. Trust is key to strength.

What I do know is that my plate is full. I am connected, by heart and soul to these friends. So, when falling to sleep is not happening and my body hurts, I know that I am grieving for the loss. The loss of what was and the loss of what is coming.

It is an unsettling feeling, empty of promise with no clear predictions. Such is life. Such is love. Such is loss. And what I know now is that grief is also a part of life and love and loss. Acceptance is key to courage.