Tag: #grief (Page 7 of 9)

When Graduation is Taken Away

June 6, 2021 / Mama Fish

Last year, and again this year, high school graduation is different. Mothers rant about how their child is ‘ripped off’ of a graduation that was to be a gathering of classmates and friends to celebrate. This grates on the nerves of some fellow grief warriors; the retort is at least their child is here to graduate. Death robbed us of this.

Zane took University in stride. He wanted to ensure he had a life balance so planned his courses accordingly stretching a 4 year degree into 7. He purposely chose to have all his favorite electives completed in the last year to finish with a slow and enjoyable end. He was to graduate in June of 2019. He was killed in August of 2018.

It was the first action I took in honor of my son. He was just a few electives short of getting his degree. A letter came from the President of the University that included his condolences and recognizing that our son was on the Dean’s list for his efforts. He mentioned a posthumous degree and included the name of the staff member that could give me more information. I called her right away.

It was no easy feat; in fact it took months of trips to Court and the University to make this happen. I was relentless and would not give up which included a meltdown in the Court bathroom (after application rejection number two) and the support of Nicole, the University staff member who pulled me back on to the ledge several times with extended deadlines and reassuring phone calls. She was one of my Angels.

In the end, I gave the honor of crossing the stage to my husband. It was a Father’s Day gift. Our family sat front row, watching Jon step onto the stage and shake hands, and accept Zane’s degree. We took pictures there of us and of Ryan, his friend and study-buddy; they were supposed to graduate together. And in a sense they did. Then we came home to share a quiet, reflective drink in my boys’ honor.

So, I get the frustration of any graduate who is entitled but can’t be in a collective group and shout to the heavens “we did it”. Graduation is a rite of passage that was earned from years of stress, late nights and hard work. How we envision it should be and how sometimes it actually is can be sad. It can be downright heart-wrenching. This is the only time that this graduation will happen and the graduates are robbed of it due to something out of their control. It is a loss.

This understanding brings a bit of compassion for the mothers who share on social media the angst of their child not being able to celebrate in a fashion they had expected. They are reacting to loss. And as one mother who has experienced the biggest loss of all, oh, how I get it.

When Solitude is Absent

May 30, 2021 / Mama Fish

With my current busy schedule of work, move and family, I have not had any time alone. I know when I am this busy, I really need to practice healthy habits, so diet, sleep and little or no wine currently is my status quo. And yet I seem to be getting worse. I blamed this on the stress and then I realized I have had no solitude.

Solitude is a buzz word. We are told that solitude brings you clarity and calm; it is the key ingredient to mindfulness. When you live with grief, it is much, much more than a thing to try. It is essential to keeping a balance between grief and complex grief.

So often in our grief we don’t want to think, and therefore taking time out is not a desirable option. But it is a tool every grief warrior needs. Spending time alone is not about being an introvert or extrovert. It is not about being lonely; it is about being alone. There is a big difference.

Solitude can be practiced in a multitude of ways. You can meditate, write, walk, read a book or take photos. It can be time spent on a hobby like sewing or scrapbooking. It can be time set aside to quietly honor our loved one. It does not take up your whole day; twenty minutes or an hour is all some might require. The important thing is to unplug and make solitude a part of your routine.

When we take the time out of each day to be alone, it enables us to quiet our brain and let what needs to come into our thoughts arrive without interruption. This practice gives you time to feel, to face and reflect on your grief. Also importantly, it gives you time to check in with yourself. What do you need right now to help you through the day, the upcoming week? It gives you time to plan your next steps to ensure you are doing what is best for you and yours, including our children across the veil.

Some moments of solitude can be painful, but like a grief spurt we know these moments are now part of our life. And the storm will pass, we keep breathing. What I find is that the more I take time to be alone, the higher my vibration rises. It brings clearness and a feeling of refreshed strength to carry on. And that is good mourning.

“A Broken Heart Still Beats”

May 16, 2021 / Mama Fish

I had no idea before Zane’s death how large the community I now live in was. To lose a child is unthinkable, unimaginable so we don’t spend any time thinking that…God forbid. But when it happens to you, when you are thrust into this nightmare reality, you discover parents of similar fate. And, I have found, there are too many parents here. Way too many.

Anne McCracken and Mary Semel, both women who have lost a child, have gathered a collection of writings (A Broken Heart Still Beats) that illustrate the shock and pain of losing a loved one. Each of the twelve chapters has an array of people who poetically share their grief. Most are about the loss of a child; others refer to the loss of a spouse or family member. Grief is grief. And this book shares the raw and honest feelings of those experiencing such grief.

I found this book comforting on certain days and other days I couldn’t bring myself to read one more tragic entry. What I did find interesting about this book is the common feelings of loss; not just of our loved one but also of us. I related to the struggles of the soul searching path to find meaning of why and what now. It was interesting learning of how others experienced grief and the effect it had on their lives. Forever.

I knew of Eric Clapton’s beautiful song, “Tears in Heaven” and felt even more connected to him when he was quoted as saying, “I have to pay my respects to that boy, in my way, and let the world know what I thought about him”. We all want to honor our loved one.

I had no idea that William Shakespeare had lost his only son Hamnett nine years before the writing of Macbeth. Is this why Macduff asks first about his children, then his wife? I always called his writings bitter sweet, I felt he turned each scenario into something sad. I now understand.

I couldn’t understand Clementine (Winston Churchill’s wife) who could not speak of their daughter Marigold and whose little sister grew up having no idea of the identity of the picture of the young girl on her mother’s dressing table. Grief affects us all.

This book is a literal community of fellow grief warriors, reminding us that we are not alone. It is a good book to have on your shelf that confirms our understanding that after your child dies, a broken heart still beats.

Once a Mother, Always a Mother

May 9, 2021 / Mama Fish

There is something innate about being a mother. It is a knowing of the responsibility bestowed upon us to care and protect this tiny spirit. And as it grows, our life is filled with sleepless nights and worry and a million decisions of how best to nurture this growing human being. Life revolves around our children. Our identity becomes, “I am mother”.

When your child passes, your whole being is shattered, including the answer to, “am I still a mother?” I no longer have a child that I can physically hold or care for. I no longer have a child that I can snap pictures of or dream future experiences for. All the factors about being a mother, as society has defined a mother to be, are gone.

My fellow grief warrior moms struggle with the questions asked by strangers, “do you have children? How many?” Our angst comes from how much do we want to share and how much can we share without breaking down? We must remember, once a mother, always a mother.

I believe that the role of mother is one bestowed upon us for OUR lifetime. And therefore, until my last breath I am a mother. I have welcomed into my home and my heart several kids I call my own; I gave birth to two children. I relish in the role of mother. It is a position of care and influence and love. It takes work, fret and prayer to carry out this role. The benefits are many, out numbering the heartaches. Including the biggest heartache, death.

When asked would you be a mother if you knew losing your child would be part of the plan, the answer is a strong, hell yes. I gave birth to Zane. I am his mother. I will always be his mother. Death does not change that. What it does do is change being his mother from a traditional role into something new. That is the hard part.

How do we mother our child’s spirit? We honor them. We protect their memory. We say their name. We believe that they are still with us and we learn new ways to reach out to them. We celebrate what should have been, like holidays and milestones and everyday favorites. We are their mother.

“Do you have children?” The answer, for me, is “Yes, I have two”. I will always have two.

A Day For Bereaved Mothers

May 3, 2021 / Mama Fish

I learned last year that the Sunday before Mother’s Day was titled Bereaved Mother’s Day. This day is specifically for mothers who have lost a child. I am not sure what the point of this is. It singles us out as who we now are but there is no fanfare or card or acknowledgement protocol. I did receive one text from a friend that she was thinking of me today. Did she know? Some of my fellow mothers have no idea this day exists. Should there not have been a memo we received telling us about this day that focuses on moms who have lost a child? Should there not be some sort of awareness campaign about this day? About the significance of losing a child?

My “mother’s day” went about like any other day. I made brunch for Jon and a friend as they brainstormed a new business idea. I did the laundry and cleaned the house. We went and picked out flooring for the condo. The kids came over to do their laundry and tell us about their weekend. I’m about to make dinner. And not a word about today was mentioned. They don’t know.

This is no fault of theirs; there is no blame about this. In fact, if such a holiday is to be, perhaps we, the grieving mothers, should be claiming this day a bit louder. Maybe this is a day to stop and recognize where I am and why I am. Maybe it is a day for us to share our pain or at least how we are feeling. Or maybe, it is just the way it is supposed to be. Maybe today is about taking time to be alone and think of your child that has left this realm. Maybe it is a time to reach out to other grieving mothers with a hug. Maybe it is a time to cuddle up and cry. And maybe this is good enough as the next Sunday is the official Mother’s Day to which accolades and flowers and phone calls will arrive celebrating motherhood.

I am just confused with this holiday. Do we need one special day that recognizes us as a grieving mother? Is that not what we are every day? I feel that Bereaved Mother’s Day has the same undertones as grief. It is a day that people don’t know what to do with. It is confusing; it is not really shared or promoted. It is awkward and ambiguous and personal. Just like grief.

To my fellow grief warriors, those mother’s who, like me, get up each day and continue to live and care for others, in spite of the pain and anguish of such loss….big hugs to each of you. And a reminder, that we are in this together.

It’s OK To Be Broken

April 25, 2021 / Mama Fish

A girlfriend reminded me of something I told her. I said, “I am broken. I will always be broken. And I am trying to learn how to live broken.” She brought it up in the context of us moving away from Zane’s childhood home and that this would be a good thing for me. She said, “It’s time for you to heal, to move on”.

We have all received the comments, “it’s time to move on” or “she wouldn’t want you to be sad” or my favorite, “I need you to be the same person you were before”-there’s a concept!

Although painful, I realize these types of comments come from the heart. Friends and family care and they don’t want to see me hurting. They too miss Zane. And they miss who I was before he was killed. None of us like change and death is the biggest change of them all.

What they don’t realize is that you can’t fix this. Death has put us into a state of grief for the remainder of our days. Some days will be better than others. Some days will bring laughter and joy…I look forward to that. Some days, actually a portion of every day, I am not ok. Something comes along and reminds me I am broken. Something shows up to remind me I am not, and cannot, be the same person I was.

The simple fact is we are broken. We can’t get over it or get past it. We are broken. What we do with our brokenness is what is important. How we bring daily practices and new ways of being into our lives is what will help soften our grief. But remove it? Put it behind us? That is not possible. Grief will always be a part of our new make-up. It is the other side of love and we have loved deep, therefore we will grieve deep.

And that’s ok. Grief is hard work and part of the work is accepting our brokenness. If you try to hide or fight it or ignore it, it will hit you harder and in many ways. By accepting it, I can face it and then I am able to explore ways that it will fit into my life such that I am not a blubbery angry mess every hour.

When something is broken and you glue the pieces back together, it is not the same as the original beautiful piece. With care and love and time, it can take a different, but still beautiful shape. Friends and family need to give us patience, and a lot of it, as we redefine ourselves to accommodate our grief and develop into a person that carries brokenness with individual style and grace.

Things We Leave Behind

April 18, 2021 / Mama Fish

As the process of moving continues, my heart becomes heavier. The work seems endless, a purging of decades of items purchased or given that has filled three levels to the ceiling. Only a third can come with me. And that might be too much. And with each long day done, I crawl into bed hoping that what I have had to leave behind will not come back to haunt me. This is especially true with Zane’s things.

Clearing out his room was by far the hardest room to do. I would only be able to tolerate a short time, a few things to sort before the memories of these belongings and what they meant to him would bring me to my knees in tears. With that, I would close the door to his room and come back another time.

In the end, I have a box of games and books and leisure items that I will share with his friends. I have packed all his clothes and will decide another time what the fate of each piece will be. Some will be shared, some will be made into pillows or a quilt or maybe another bear. (My memory bear, made out of one of his favorite hoodies, is a treasured piece that sits on my bed). I threw out or donated his toys he kept from his childhood; well, a box of favorites is coming with me. I am taking his desk and his bed, hoping it will fit in my tiny new abode. We packed his collection of wines to enjoy with family and friends on special occasions. His room is now ‘staged’ to sell. He would be pleased how tidy it is.

His bathroom was even harder than his bedroom. I left that to last. Opening his drawer to find his toothbrush and hair brush, waiting there for him to wake up and use them. His box of contact lenses; he had just renewed his prescription. His cologne and deodorant; I closed my eyes, sprayed it into the air to smell how he would smell after a shower. His daily routine in this bathroom; I can hear him singing in the shower. I can see him rubbing the hair crème between his hands and placing it perfectly to shape his hair. He spent more time on his hair than I did on mine! None of his personal hygiene items will be taken with me. There is a sad finality around this. Packing up his stuff drives home the fact that he will not be stopping by to pick them up. I will not be helping move them over to his new place. This is it. And that takes a lot of energy.

The hardest thing I will be leaving behind is the imprinted energy of my son growing up and living in this home. I wish I could bottle the energy to open and breathe in his smell, to see his clothes on the floor or the school work scattered on his desk. I wish I could bottle the sound of his laughter as he beat the latest video game. The emotions and the memories of my son’s life in this home now must reside in my heart.

Perhaps that is why the whole in our heart is so vast; there is a lifetime of photographic moments that fill it.

Choosing the Final Resting Spot

April 11, 2021 / Mama Fish

When my father was dying, we discussed where his final resting place might be. We agreed it would be with me. He wanted nothing fancy. “Put me in a cardboard box and as long as you want me, I will know that I am traveling with you and Jon”. That was 25 years ago and he is still travelling with us.

Choosing your child’s final resting spot is a whole other level. It is something we should not have to think about, but for the community I live in, it is an ugly reality. This past weekend, our friends invited us to be a part of placing their son in his ‘final resting spot’. It was an experience I was not ready for.

Every detail they agonized over. Choices of what to place in the tomb with his urn were made. His father wore his son’s clothes and took his baseball cap off to place with the other beloved items. My husband spoke, welcoming their friends and together we shared our love for their son and their grief.

It was much like a memorial until it was time to seal the tomb. I had no idea it would affect me in the way that it did. Watching the men lining the top with a heavy bond and then placing the lid to seal the urn and his personal belongings into a place for eternity was heart wrenching. I thought of our sons’ urn at home. I thought of my father’s urn. I can hold or speak to their urn at any time; I can move them from room to room. They are mobile. The thought of having their urns anywhere but with me, seems incomprehensible. And although I truly respect their decision, a final resting spot is not something I had thought about until that afternoon; witnessing the urn placed in a beautiful memorial marble tomb that we will not be able to hold or touch again. It was final, too final for me.

Each of us has our reasons for what we do. Our choices are made to assist us with what we need to mourn. Each of us is different, yet with a lot of similarities. We want to honor our child, protect our child, and do right by our child, even after death.

Our friends ensured each detail was about their son. His final resting place is near a pond where he might want to have fished. He is positioned to be ‘looking’ west, towards home. And it has a beautiful bench to sit on. As difficult as it was for them to place their son in a final resting spot, they feel it will bring some peace to know that he is forever safe in a place where all his friends and family can visit. Which we will do.

Plan for no More

April 4, 2021 / Mama Fish

There is something about knowing it is your last time. As we continue to prep to sell our home, I realized that this Easter will be our last one here. Suddenly it becomes very nostalgic. Each thought around what to serve, how the table will look, what could we do extra consumes my thoughts. And memories of Easters past come back to visit me.

We had years of egg hunts in this home, always ending up in the laundry room where the ‘big prize’ was hidden in the laundry chute. Friends and family would gather around our table, living out Zane’s definition of happiness; good food, good drink and good company. We have been blessed.

I have kept our Easter traditions since the crash but with new twists. I make Easter bags to share with friends and family which now include a tube of bubbles to honor Zane. My daughter and I still dye eggs, with one, a bright blue for Zane. This ‘last time’ melancholy encourages me to look at this holiday and ask myself, what do I want this Easter to be? The last Easter in my children’s home.

We often say, “Oh, if only I had known it was the last time. If only I had one more time.” Why don’t we treat each celebration, even each day, like it might be our last? In the daily hustle, it is hard to slow down enough to think it might be the last time. We believe there will be more, many more, or at least one more. But we have learned in the most tragic of ways and now we know better, there is never a guarantee for ‘One more’.

I encourage you this year, as holidays and special occasions arrive to treat them like the last time. Slow down to think about past times and traditions built around each one. Consider ways to do things different or new or what might you always want the same. With each holiday, think of ways you can honor and include our children who are celebrating with us from a different realm. Acknowledging that each celebration may just be the last time does not have to be depressing. In fact, it can be the fuel to invite gratitude into our lives. And that is good mourning.

Grief Has Hit Home

March 28, 2021 / Mama Fish

We had always wanted to downsize after the kids grew up and moved out. This becomes complicated when your child passes and moving becomes leaving the physical space of a lifetime of memories together. Our new place will not have Zane sit there and share a drink with us. It will not have his fingerprints on the door or his voice fill the room with new things to remember. Leaving this home feels like my son is leaving all over again.

I thought maybe I could remedy this by bringing all of his things with me. The problem with downsizing is that you no longer have the space for everything. Tough decisions will need to be made as to what stays and what goes. It takes the joy of moving to a bittersweet level. Ironically fitting with everything else; life is bittersweet, including our move.

The suggestions have been to take pictures, give some of his things to friends, sell his stuff and use the money to buy something he would have liked. These are helpful ideas. I might even try all of them. However, none of them brings his room, all his belongings with me. None of these suggestions help me accept that his imprinted energy of living in this home for seventeen years will remain here. Away from me.

I know that his spirit is everywhere. I know that he will know where I am and I expect more visits. None of the aspects of communicating with my son on his new realm will change after the move. That is not what I am grieving. I am grieving that the last home my son lived in, grew up in, will be gone.

What will happen to the tree he planted in grade three? Will the new owners cut it down? What happens to his bike that I look out each morning to see by the fence…remembering how much he enjoyed that as a boy. The view through the front window where he would pull up in his beloved car…I still look out that window, waiting for him to arrive. The piano he learned to play, the couch he played video games on, and the video games….our current home is still staged for his return. The new home will have none of this. It simply cannot. These changes are kryptonite to me.

Someone suggested this move might help with my healing. I can’t imagine how, but I hope so. Right now, with each step to prepare for our house to sell and to move away causes my heart to scream. Grief has hit home in every definition.