Tag: #grief (Page 8 of 9)

The Arrival of How

March 14, 2021 / Mama Fish

I gave birth to two children. I am ‘mama fish’ to many more. Friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, that my own children have brought home and I have adopted like rescue puppies. Our home was filled with a variety of personalities that sat at our kitchen island. I would feed them, listen to their dreams, their drama, and their hopes. I keep in touch with them to this day. They have all grown into beautiful young adults experiencing life in ways unique to them and I relish in their shared stories.

This week, as I was shopping at Safeway, my daughter called me in hysterics. She asked if I was sitting down. No, I was pushing my cart of food, mask on, in a hurry to finish. She blurted out that one of these boys, one she had dated and stayed in touch with as friends, was found dead.

The floor came up to meet me. I gasped. I moved my cart to an aisle where no one was in so I could take off my mask. “What the hell?” I asked…I needed to rehear it. How does this happen? How can this loving child be gone? How did this happen to someone so young? How did we not know? How…

I think that how is where grief is born. It is the word that we utter as the pain and confusion of this reality arrives and the need to understand becomes a basic priority. It is what our brain needs to know to face what is happening. We want this word answered as if in some way, answering it could change things. The answer might bring hope and a clue to fix this. And yet, when a child dies, the how…every how to this question brings only one truth. Your child is dead.

Our heart is more complicated and less accepting. It doesn’t care of the how. It asks why. And it is the answer to this question that seals our fate as a grief warrior. The answer to the why is a never-ending question we keep reliving because we know how but we will never be able to understand why.

When You Lose a Child You Have Not Met

March 7, 2021 / Mama Fish

The unbreakable bond of motherhood begins when we are told we are pregnant. In my second trimester, I had some unusual spotting and was sent for an ultrasound. This was my first pregnancy and I was a ‘high-risk’. I asked the technician if everything was ok. She said nothing. She asked me to go to the change room and wait. I sat there, wearing the blue paper gown, hand on my tummy, waiting to hear the fate of my child. I had never experienced fear as deep or hope as high as in that moment.

She tapped on the wall next to my curtain and called my name. I poked my head out. She smiled and said; “Your baby is fine”. I sat back on the bench. Relief filled me and suddenly I was crying. The assurance that my child was ok, that this little life growing inside me was still here.

I share this experience because the memory of that day came flooding back when I received the news that my nephew’s fiancé had a miscarriage. I didn’t even know they were pregnant. They had invited us over to which their plan was to share the happy news. Instead of an announcement of joy, we received a call that the unthinkable happened and they needed a little time alone. They are grieving.

I am at a loss. I learned of both the pregnancy and the death in the same call. I want to run over but they have shut the doors and unplugged in their deep agony. Their choice is such a different way of grieving than the one we made where dozens of friends and family came through our doors when Zane was killed.

Yes, everyone grieves different. And yes, you will not know how you will grieve until you are there. I naturally thought, as every parent would, that I would die right on the spot. Instead, we were welcoming Zane’s friends into our home with open arms. My husband sat next to these friends, asking for stories and soaking in the memories they shared. And we could do this because we had 26 years of experiences with our son. My nephew had only months of knowing that he was to be a father and dreaming of what that would be like.

Now, they will begin to hear all the usual things one says about such a loss; you are young, you can have another child, it wasn’t meant to be, and you will get past this. Because what else do you say to a couple whose lost a baby they hadn’t met? The truth is whatever their future will contain, that life, that baby, is no longer an earthly little bundle of joy but rather a spirit of energy they cannot dress or hold.

A loss is a loss. Regardless of the age of your child, this type of loss is catastrophic. It sends you to live in a world where all the hopes and dreams and expectations are gone for that child and for your life as it would have been with that child. I ache for them; for being so very young in their journey to have to experience this type of pain.

So, I did what we do when we don’t know what else to do. I made soup and muffins that I will drop off at their door. I will wait until they are ready to be hugged. And in the meantime, I will share their pain from a distance.

Our First Conversation across the Realms

February 28, 2021 / Mama Fish

A colleague asked if I remembered what I was thinking the first day we received the news of Zane’s passing. Everyone is different. For me, it was vague. I remember just snippets of that day. I went back to the letters I wrote to Zane after the crash and found this one.

Dear Zane,

The day of the crash I kept repeating, quietly but out loud, three things. “It’s ok, I know and, yes”.

Why these? In my deep and earth shattering shock of the unbearable news given to me, why would I quietly, calmly repeat these words over and over?

Was I talking to you? You were here, even then, to let me know? Does that make sense? And what were you saying to me that had these answers?

I always say “it’s ok” to those in pain or dealing with change of no choice. Was I telling you it’s ok? That I know you are still here. I know you are ok. I know that you are moving on to where you are supposed to be. Yes, it’s ok that this is the plan?

No. I do not feel that way. Now. But I wonder, in that day that cut open, raw day, if I did know better? If some how you were there to say, this is what happened. And I said, “It’s ok”. And you said, “I’m off to the next realm” and I said, “I know” and you said “ok?” and I said, “yes”.

And perhaps in my sheer grief that conversation happened but my brain can’t remember the details. It was a conversation our souls had. And it’s why I was so calm, so quiet, so (temporarily) absent from pain. Or maybe so deep in pain. Either way, I know it was a conversation we were having. An understanding that you gave me, to which, in my present pain, I must find and hang on to.

Over the last year, I am learning that I can still have a relationship with my son if I meet him halfway. Zane believed we are energy, souls having a human experience. He would talk about how souls vibrate at a much higher level than humans; of how the mind uses such a small capacity of its’ potential. This belief has inspired me to place hope in the practice of raising my vibration level to receive more.

At first this sounded too sci-fi trippy for me but what do I have to lose? I mean, how happy are we when we dream of our children or see a sign that we believe they sent? Why wouldn’t you want to have more of those, daily dosages of connection. Albeit, a physical hug is what we will always wish for, since fate stole that from us, what could other possible ways to unite with our child be?

I believe that my words uttered repeatedly that day, hours after we were told he was killed, was a conversation I did indeed have with my son. It was the first of many to come.

Sweetening Sorrow

February 14, 2021 / Mama Fish

When Zane was a toddler, as most parents do, I would bribe him. “If you are good while we shop for groceries we can go to Bernard Callebaut after,” I would say as we entered the store. He was always good. He couldn’t wait for the milk chocolate sucker in the shape of a bear. Flash forward to Easter and his Aunt sends the Zeller’s chocolate rabbit special. Zane took one bite off the ear and spit it out. “What ‘dis?”; he said with disgust. It was then that I realized what I had done. I had instilled a taste of expensive chocolate in my 2 year old. There was no going back.

The holidays, Valentine’s included, are rough for grief warriors. It takes energy, sometimes more than we have, to face the empty day, the missing part of our past traditions that can’t be the same now. Valentine’s is the first of these after the New Year to face. And when I remember this, it gives me some understanding as to why we are all a bit edgy and short tempered lately. It’s the anticipation of another upcoming holiday without my boy.

I need to change this. I ‘host’ holidays but without the excitement and interest I used to have. I know Zane would want me to celebrate and enjoy special occasions. He used to kid me about decorating the house and sending cards for every type of holiday. “Just another reason for my mom to party,” he would explain to his friends. And he was right. We are, or were, a social house. And maybe we still are…just not as loud, or not as easy as before.

So, how do we bring back joy to things we used to love doing? I believe we have to incorporate things our loved ones cared for. What brought your child joy on Valentine’s Day? Was it a trip to the local chocolate shop? Was it decorating cards to hand out to friends? Was it baking cookies to dip in caramel sauce? What if we could push past the pain, and instead of not doing these things without our child, we continue to do them in honor of our child?

We know that when we share stories and things that our child loved, we feel better in that moment. They will always be a part of our lives so why push the traditions they loved into past tense? Why not include what they liked in our present celebrations. This could be good mourning.

I am going to buy some really good chocolate to share. I’m going to open a bottle of his favorite red and order the heart shaped pizza. And maybe, with attitude and practice, the joy Zane would want for me will come.

To Change the Room, or Not

February 7, 2021 / Mama Fish

Zane was living at home when he was killed. He was finishing school and wanted to move out when he didn’t have school and car costs…the plan was after graduation. We had developed a suite for him downstairs and it was like his own little apartment. His friends would kid him about why would he ever want to move out. It was convenient and it gave me more time with him than most mothers had with their young adult children who had moved out. In hindsight, his living at home was a gift.

There is no right way to do grief. That includes what to do with your child’s belongings. Some have left the room as is. Others have taken everything down but a few mementos. I have friends whose child was not living at home, who have created a space in their home of all their child’s favorite things as a place to be with their memories and their child’s spirit.

We have not touched Zane’s room. His laundry basket still sits there with a load of dirty laundry to be done. His bar fridge holds his water and Gatorade bottles. His room is as it was two and a half years ago. I keep the door shut and I still knock on it before I enter. My therapist suggested opening the door to his clothes closet just slightly, putting my hand in to touch a shirt or two and then closing it again. She felt that it might get easier doing repetitive ‘touch-ins’ which would then enable me to start packing up his things. I can open the closet fully now but I am not ready to box his belongings.

My husband has suggested we paint it. Or make it into a guest room. When in his room I give thought to this, to what could be options. The answer is always, “we will do nothing, it is Zane’s room.”

When I enter his room, the smells and his invisible energy and the sight of how life was when he stayed here wraps around me and pulls me in. I will sit on his bed and look around and I can almost see him sitting next to me, remembering the conversations we had. “I’m thinking of moving my bed to the other wall…” or “where should I hang my picture I bought at Stampede?” He is so very real in this room.

The resistance to change his room is not something I want to face. Changing his room into whatever that might be, is too big a task for my heart to consider. I am not sure when I will be ready. I am not giving it a deadline; I will know when it is time. For now, if I see a plant or a candle or a book that he would enjoy, I buy it. And I add it to his room.

Distracting Grief with On-Line Learning

January 25, 2021 / Mama Fish

Nature is a great teacher we do not pay attention to enough. In the cold winter months, nature appears to do very little, hibernating and resting, preparing for the coming of the warm spring. For those of us living in colder temperatures, this is a good month to snuggle inside. Although with current times we have been snuggling alone for too long, which makes one feel restless.

Maybe this is a time to think about, dare I say dream about, something we have always wanted to try. Is there a hobby you have always wanted to take up or something you wanted to learn? Maybe you could learn a new language or take a course in self-discovery or how to paint. The internet is filled with courses available for every interest and most of them are free or affordable.

For those of us grieving, on-line learning can be doable. It doesn’t require going out into the public and the energy it takes to make small talk. On-line courses are usually self paced so you can learn when you feel up to it. They are usually short in length. They usually have a forum to share if you so choose through a Face Book group or comment section giving you the option to be social. It is a comfortable way to try new things without a major commitment.

I have taken two courses. One introduced me to a group of like minded people who I engage with over social media. The other was a 7-day clutter challenge. Each day you learned of a possibility of why we hang on to our stuff. It introduced a sort of spiritual help to assist in looking into the emotion or belief of these hesitations, all designed to help one declutter better. Beyond the usual does it have value, is it beautiful, and is it meaningful measure to keep or chuck, this course instructed you to meditate before beginning. The meditation had you visualize being in the room and gazing upon each individual item and remembering where it came from, and noticing that immediate reaction to it. Does it give you energy when you think of it or take away energy? If it takes away, get rid of it. Zane’s room was on this list. His whole room gives me sweet memories and a bittersweet energy so it stays just as it is. The bonus of this course was that my husband got involved and decided to take the initiative for his areas of the home. Who knew there was carpet in his home office? And it has become (a new) habit for him to put away his clothes. Bonus!

These quick courses are a distraction from grief. They are a topic of personal interest and require a short attention span. I feel productive that I have accomplished something of interest to me. So, while it is cold and blowing outside, I snuggle into a cozy chair with my lap top and take in my lesson of the day. This gives me energy that I can use or store away for a future sunny day. It also gives my grief a break. And that is good mourning.

A Dose of Disbelief

January 18, 2021 / Mama Fish

The first year I was totally numb from the shock of what happened. The second year I found much more painful, much more ‘real’ as the shock softened. Then, the magic of disbelief set in. You will be told that time will soften your grief and that with time you will be able to accept things and learn to live with your new normal. Broken but put back together in some emotional way to be a different person who is still capable of living life to its fullest. And although I do believe there is truth to this, I find that this advice makes us hurry, makes us judge how well we are healing. It makes us feel guilty that we are not moving fast enough. And it brings on feelings of fear; we don’t want to move away from our loved ones. It brings on guilt, how can I be happy without my loved one? It brings on a new pain, realizing the eternal impact that this death has in our life.

This is why disbelief feels therapeutic. When our hearts cannot face the reality for one more second, disbelief can set in to comfort us. How many have said, “I am waiting for him to come home” or “I believe I will see her on some busy street. “ Our brain knows better. But our heart beats with this incredibly strong hope that this is not the plan for us. At one time, our heart believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny. Our heart believes in love, in a higher power. Our hearts believe in what we cannot see or explain so why can’t my heart believe that my loved one is not truly gone from this life?

Disbelief lives within our hearts as a sort of morphine that flows through us when the memory becomes unbearable. We use it to keep from screaming out in pain. We use it to feel only what we can bear to feel for that moment. Disbelief can support our grief by reminding us that we don’t have to fully accept our grief today. We can take our time. We can go at a pace that is slow.

It is obvious that disbelief does not change how things are. Because we live with BIG grief, we can learn to use our emotions as tools to help us cope and disbelief works a bit like Advil. It can bring temporary relief. And like any other ‘medication’, it should not be overused. Disbelief is a coping tool, not a solution.

I use disbelief on days that I am exhausted or that my grief has crippled me and taken my strength away. I say out loud, “he’ll be back”. Or I look into the mirror and whisper, “don’t go there today…” And then I plod on, numbed by the disbelief that I am living the unimaginable and with that, I get through another day.

Daily Grief Reading

January 10, 2021 / Mama Fish

I like to choose a book at the beginning of each year that will bring hope in a daily reading format. Last year I chose “Grief Day by Day” by Jan Warner. The simple practices and daily guidance for living with loss (as the front cover says) broke the year into weeks, each with a theme that was relative and insightful.

It begins with what are the stages of grief and covers topics from emotions to coping strategies to reflections of where do we go from here.

I looked to each morning with anticipation, reading about common feelings and ideas to support my grief. The quotes from different people reminded me of the community that I am a part of. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, quoted on Day one, “The reality is that you will grieve forever.” Ouch. Her quote continues to say, “You will heal and you will rebuild…” which offers hope that we will someday be able to live with our grief.

Some of the days I laughed at the relevance. Patton Oswalt (week 33) tells us “It is not a ‘healing journey. It’s a ‘numb slog’…if they call it a ‘healing journey,’ it’s just a day of you eating Wheat Thins for breakfast in your underwear, you’re like ‘I guess I’m f-king up my healing journey.’ But if they would say you’re going to have a ‘numb slog,’ you could say ‘oh, I’m nailing it.”

This book gets us. Each week ends with an exercise on ‘becoming a grief whisperer’. One of my favorite exercises was from week 36, “Crazy things Grievers Do”, which gave me permission to buy Zane presents. With that in mind, this year I filled his Christmas stocking, to which I gave out the items I bought to family members. Among the items was a book of a favorite poet I gave to his dad, a gift certificate to a favorite watering hole given to his sister and a candle that sits in his room. I enjoyed doing it. It made it feel less lonely somehow to see his stocking filled, rather than empty, and hanging next to the other stockings. The joy felt by the sharing of some things that Zane loved was good mourning.

In the epilogue of this book, Jan writes;

“When someone you love dies, you are left to do all your own stunts. Where once you had love and support, now you have absence and longing. Grief work is finding the ways in which love and support still exist. Eternal missing is eternal love.”

Jan considers herself a fellow grief warrior and believes “that love triumphs over death, if we let it.”

This was a great resource over the last 52 weeks and one that is worth reading over again.

The Goal to Move Forward

January 3, 2021 / Mama Fish

Long ago, I remember telling Zane that I had failed achieving my goals I had set for that year. He asked to see them and I handed him 3 pages. He playfully shook the pages in front of my face and said, “no one has this many goals, mom, this is why you fail”. Then, as he read my long list, he crossed off all the goals I had written that were totally out of my control. At the end, I had a few goals and, in fact, had achieved them. His ability to help me keep things in check was a blessing I truly miss.

Each year, including this one, I think of that lesson he taught me as I ponder what I want to accomplish in the New Year. I also take into account a piece of advice from my sister. “When writing out your goals, remember to include how you want to feel this year. If you want to feel adventurous, make sure your goals include things that will bring you that emotion.”

Grief should then make goal setting simple. The goal is to live each day and feel less sad. But somehow it doesn’t feel that simple. To mourn, to move forward with our grief, we need more than this. We need to answer the ‘how’ we do this.

As I read the posts from fellow grief warriors of the worry and fear of moving into a New Year without their loved one, there appear common denominators. We are afraid to live the first year without them being a part of that. We are afraid that people will forget our loved one. We worry about how we are coping, or not coping. We worry that this pain continues to borough into our souls. We worry if we have the strength of continuing to achieve the simple goal of facing each new day.

Perhaps in these worries and fears, come possibilities for our goals. What if our goals included a way or two that we will honor our loved one this year? What if our goals included how we will say their name throughout the year? What if our goals included something we promise to do to care for ourselves? What if our goals included a plan to implement on days that are too dark to be alone? What if our goals included learning or trying new ways of connecting to our loved one? (Yes, that is a thing!)

I believe goals are important even when we are grieving. Goals help remind us what it is we are striving for, what is important to us. Goals outline possible ways to get there, the ‘how’ do we do this. Without them we become reactive rather than proactive. Even with grief, we know we must move forward. Slowly, stopping to rest, but yes, facing forward and finding ways to bring our pain and our memories with us. So how do you want to move forward with your grief? The answers can bring you good mourning.

It’s a wrap-Holidays 2020 Done!

December 28, 2020 / Mama Fish

We made it. I can’t say I’ve ever liked the hassle of the holidays. There is too much of everything; food, wine, spending…I am sure that Christmas didn’t start out like this. Leave it to us to make a spiritual holiday a commercial event. There always seems to be drama too. Who didn’t get invited, whose house, which day to be at is always difficult with blended families. The ban on gathering inside our homes caused more tension. Friends, who we would always welcome into our home, this year, dropped their gifts at the door and left. It goes against my open door policy. The need to be together and share stories helps our grief. This season, because we were limited, I know, my grief was intensified.

Two of our friends, who lost their only child, dropped by with a book that Zane would love. It was a thoughtful gift, recognizing our son, and our pain, as they miss their own daughter. I broke ‘the rule’ and hugged her. My heart ached for the emptiness I know she feels. I wanted to pull her daughter from the heavens and hand her back to her. There is nothing you can do or say to comfort this level of pain. And so I just hugged her.

This was our third holiday season without the happy go lucky boy of mine here to make the mashed potatoes and doubt we have enough gravy. Zane loved gravy on everything, and lots of it, so a traditional gravy boat was not adequate. Our gravy boat is a massive Alice in Wonderland tea pot. Used only for gravy. This year I could not bring it out to use.

The first Christmas we were in shock, the second in disbelief. This third year I am angry. It’s time this cruel trick was over and he showed up, like physically showed up. I am sick of pretending that I am ok. And so I brought the holidays in for my family to enjoy them and when it was over, I went to bed and took the next day off.

Alas. We made it. May this holiday be a reminder, fellow grief warriors, of the incredible strength you have. Take a look at what this season demanded of you. We prepared for a holiday, compromised by the current times. We travelled through malls, saw TV ads, and had casual conversations about the season’s glitter and the merriment of it all. Something we might not feel but we nod anyways. With our heads held up and a smile on our brave face, we took on another Christmas without the physical presence of our beloved. This courage, this strength to plod on facing the appalling reality we live with is something we do. Perhaps this strength comes from the love we have for our missed one. Perhaps it is a way to honor them; to represent them. Perhaps it is their very essence that provides us with this incredible strength. (A topic for another day). But today, give yourself a yahoo, a pat on the back, a self hug, for managing this difficult time of year.

Holidays 2020, done. We made it. And together, we will face 2021 with that same strength.