Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Tag: #loss (Page 2 of 5)

The Proof, Written In the Cards

February 18, 2024 /

The hectic, never-ending list to do caught up to me this week and I landed in bed with a cold. I’m not sure if it was that my daughter had it first and I looked after her or that it seems EVERY time my husband goes on a holiday, I get sick. Whatever the reason, I took it as a Universal sign to unplug. Well, not so much a sign, I had no choice. Remaining vertical caused my sinuses to explode so I stayed on my back and went through a box of cards my friends had left behind when they died.

“The sweeties” were the classic love story with a twist. I wrote about them before, and their chosen way to leave earth. It will be a year next month since they departed. The box of cards and pictures was one of the last things I had promised to take care of for them. How to disperse of their treasured memories in a way that honors them. It has been no easy task. They had bins of photo albums of trips and family events and childhood gatherings. We kept a lot. I gave some pictures of their golf buddies to the course they loved and belonged to for years. We mailed some to friends and a bunch to her sister. It was the large box of greeting cards that surprised me how hard they would be to dispose of. I read each one. Birthday cards from friends, get well cards and thinking of you cards but most of the cards were from each other. Every Valentine Day, Anniversary and Christmas card was kept. And each one had the same message. Eternal love.

This couple, with all the trials of combined families and complicated health scares, truly loved each other. Forever. I mean they died together. Reading the cards reminded me of that love. The partnership they held tighter than anything else in their lives. They were soul mates. His signature on every card was “Love your DA” with a heart and kisses drawn. In the early years, the signature and the drawing were clear and as time went on, the signature was messier and the heart not so clear. Still, one can see, his heart was always for her. Her signature, on every card was “Love always, your sweetie.”  There was no mistake, they belonged to each other.

I have had mixed feelings about how they left, when they left; the time leading up to their departure was not as ideal as any of us would have liked. This made grief come with mixed emotions, like anger and worry if we did enough or could have done things differently.  Alas, there is no options for a repeat, so we continue to grieve while we attempt to answer these questions. The truth is that it was as it was to be. The cards proved that.

In the end, I have two great friends that faced life together, always together, always ‘yours’ and they left here the same way. ‘FOREVER YOURS’. How can I be anything but happy for them? And I am. When I look past the anguish of not having my ‘sweeties’ here to share a glass of wine with me, or to hear their laugh, or hear her tell me, “Love you, love you, love you” …. I just need to remember that I witnessed, a one-of-a-kind love between them. Like all loves, it did not come without its’ bumps and bruises, but the cards reminded me, at the end of the day, they always chose each other.

Old Blue Eyes

January 21, 2024 /

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!

When Tears Arrive

November 26, 2023 /

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.

When Sadness is Doubled

October 1, 2023 /

I woke up tired. There is a lot going on with a wedding to be planned, family in town, work deadlines to be reached and a house that needs attention. I wished I could stay in bed. And then I remembered it was the anniversary of my friends’ son’s death. And a milestone.  Five years. Worse, it was the first year without his wife. There was no choice.  I needed to go.

It was a wet, rainy, cold morning as we pulled up to the site of his son’s crash. As their tradition has it, there were roses to be tied around the lamp post and a rock, spray painted blue with a note of endearment printed on it to place in the grass. His stepdaughter, replacing the role of her mother, helped him tie the ribbon, securing the roses. I watched them work together, taking their picture so she could have one to include with her sentiments she would post on social media.

I wasn’t aware that this year would hit me harder.  It had with Zane, so I think my soul knew how hard this must be on them to have the haunting ‘5-year mark’ come.  And to come without the support of their loving wife and mother. I felt the tears come and walked away to compose myself so that I could be strong for them.

Later that same day, we all met as a larger group at their favorite watering hole to celebrate.  This year there were two pictures on the table. The group hugged and toasted mother and son. More stories of the summer, of the past, of life in general were shared.  I commented how strange it was, that although I never met their son, I felt that I knew him. Sharing the life and the loves of your child over five years makes one feel like you knew them on earth. And thus, maybe why their death touches a little deeper as time goes on.

I overheard my friend and his stepdaughter talk of how small their family has become and how much each other is needed in the others life. And I smiled to myself.  Over death, the two seem to be becoming even closer. My girlfriend would love this.

Being a part of today, I witnessed the pain of loss doubled and the strength found in facing it together. I was a part of the traditions that we create to remember and honor our loved ones. There is nothing more holistic than the moments we stand still, in the rain and look up to the heavens to whisper, I love you, I miss you, I know you are still with me.

The Art of Ceremonial Purging

September 17, 2023 /

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too Busy To Grieve

September 10, 2023 /

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Little Wagon That Stayed

September 3, 2023 /

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Brother, Wandering but Not Lost

August 27, 2023 /

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To Zane, on the Fifth Anniversary

August 6, 2023 /

Dear Zane,

We are sitting together,

on an urban patio

under the hot summer sun

Cold drink in our hand.

We are laughing,

Sharing stories of our separate adventures,

comparing notes of the latest antics

of our family members

Your sunglasses catch my reflection,

I see me smiling,

the joy of being with you

And that I am grateful for.

This summer marks 5 years

The summer you went to your favorite place,

Never to return

The summer that sent us to hell

It froze us in our grief,

Imprisoned us to the past

It has questioned our purpose,

challenged us to survive

Which is what we have done

And that I am grateful for.

I imagine what you might be doing

if fate had been different-

A writer, a model, a photographer

Even strangers tell me

You are unforgettable.

And that I am grateful for.

5 years has taught me that time will not diminish

the impact you brought, the lessons you taught.

Our family remains steadfast,

Remembering you, celebrating you,

Keeping your essence alive

And that I am grateful for.

“Mourning has Broken” by Erin Davis

July 23, 2023 /

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

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

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

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

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

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