Tag: #loss (Page 3 of 4)

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.

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.

The Gift of Time

January 22, 2023 / Mama Fish

While waiting for our plane to take off, I was scrolling through Facebook and came across a post that the husband of a colleague of mine had passed. I had no idea as we have not talked since 2020. I knew he was sick; he was sick when we met. So why I was shocked and now crying on the plane surprised me.

His unique obituary, a personal blog of his journey that he wrote to the world, has captured many people who have never met him but feel his spirit through his words. And he is inspiring. Even after death. His wife, who equals his grace, and his two children, join our community of grief.

Every grief journey is different. Hers began with the diagnosis that her husband had only a few months to live. When I met my friend, she was a new hire to the organization I worked for. She had just started when the news of her future was given. We worked close together, and she balanced her demanding job in between his cancer treatments and raising two teenagers. She was an example of light, love and how to have it all. I admired her. I enjoyed working with her. And when I quit to move to another contract, we promised to continue supporting each other over our favorite glass of wine. Her husband was in remission then and somehow, I thought he would live forever.

Sitting and reading the beautiful summary of his life I was filled with remorse. I was not there for her. I did not keep in touch. She reached out when Zane was killed with the same sweet kindness, she shares with everyone. We promised, again, to keep in touch. That did not happen. Life seems to blur what we want to do with what time there is to do it all. And now, the opportunities to have been there with her, for her and her family, are gone. Or are they?

True, we get busy with our own grief and life demands that we do not always get to where we want to go or be the person we want to be. However, we know that guilt has no room here and each day is a new day to make a difference. She has lots of family and friends to support her. And I can still be one of those. It is what we are taught in grief. That our community is one filled with those who are missing their loved one, and although their story and their pain will be different than our own, we understand loss.

I think that is what is important. Perhaps a lesson hiding. Time is so unrelated. It promises nothing, it stands in front of us, empty and waiting for us to fill it in what way we choose. Each day is a new blank slate with the opportunities to do different, to do better. It is a gift that each of us receives, and my friends’ husband knew this well. The lesson, for me, knowing how he lived on this earth, is that time will tell and before it tells you, take it as a gift and make the most of it. As he did. As they all did.

To her husband, thank you. Thank you for being such a spirit of hope and optimism and an example of how each of us could be facing our own adversity. Your strength and courage are contagious. Your sense of humor had us all laughing, a lot. Your generosity was felt by so many, including me. Your love of family, friends and of this life, encourages us all to be the best we can be. And to relish in the time, we are given.

Bless you, Jim. Keep in touch.

A Message in December

December 18, 2022 / Mama Fish

Zane wrote a poem for a friend who died of an overdose. At the request of this friend’s mother, Zane read it out loud at the funeral. The title was “If you sedate, don’t expect to wake”. It was a harsh poem about addiction and the ramifications it brings. Including death.

I’d like to start by removing the stigma of this topic. Addiction has many connotations, none of them are pretty. I have many friends, wonderful parents, good people who have lost a child to addiction. They lost a child. They will be in pain for the rest of their life. And yet, because of the nature of their child’s death, there is a social stigma, a sideways look, and innuendos of how they failed. My mother used to say, “by the Grace of God, go I”. A line fitting for the smug person who believes that it would never happen to them. No child declares when they grow up, they want to be an addict. And I have never met a parent who didn’t struggle, trying to save their child.

My children have seen more friends die at a young age, than our generation did. Our family has experienced addiction on both sides. We have had friends and family members battle this disease, lose to this disease and we lost Zane to a man who was an addict and chose to drive that night. No one is untouched by addiction. CDC informs us that over 108,000 died of a drug overdose between April 2021 and April 2022. The number keeps rising. Addiction is the pandemic that continues to go ignored.

The truth is we are all connected, and the village has a problem. Something is wrong and we all need to fix it for the sake of our children. Let’s first agree that addiction can happen to anyone. Let’s open our minds to alternate ways to healthcare besides dispensing opioids and narcotics without any assessment or follow up. Let’s open our hearts to those struggling (the addict and their family) and offer our love and prayers. Let’s open our wallets and support the organizations that are trying to find answers and those that are helping heal the broken. Let’s believe that there is an answer. And let’s become a part of that answer. For the sake of those who sedate and will not wake.

December belongs to all of us. As we celebrate the holidays, the magic of the season and experience all the warm and fuzzies, we are reminded that it is Drunk & Drugged Driving month. I am of the belief that if we had fewer people self-medicating, we would have fewer people driving impaired. I’d like to focus on healing those in pain, rather than punishing them. We are all vulnerable.

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.

Mindfulness and the Empty Chair

November 27, 2022 / Mama Fish

We recently celebrated American Thanksgiving. I always enjoy it more as it has a tone of a quieter enjoyable holiday, compared to the Canadian Thanksgiving and the upcoming holiday season that brings with it all the commercial hoopla. American Thanksgiving contained no fuss. We shared KFC and M&M’s buffet with our daughter and friends. We toasted to things we can be grateful for and shared wishes for things to come. All in all, I did not feel the typical intensity of grief that accompanies traditional celebrations.

That does not mean our pain is any less. In fact, currently both emotional and physical pain are at an extreme. And there is always the empty chair; the place that Zane should be at. Yet, that night, there seemed to be a sense of calm as if grief had chosen to sit in the corner and leave us alone for a bit. Even the empty chair didn’t seem as empty. I pondered why.

I am not sure how to explain it, but it was like we paused life that night. We had no expectations. There was no pressure about making this holiday dinner all things we think it needs to be. We were in the moment, together. We were a group that shares sorrow and joy. We talked about our boys, not in past tense but in how they fill our life, still. The attitude was like the boys were there, sitting in their chairs, joining in the conversation. This brought an air of peace.

I wonder how we can repeat this with the upcoming holidays. We know that the holidays make grief bigger. We know the empty chair at the table shouts this is not right. Grief warriors hate the holidays. And for good reason. Yet, the holidays are always going to come around and I don’t want to be the emotional mess every time. I don’t want my daughter to be the emotional mess every time. Can this not be fixed. Can we do something to fill the empty chair.

Mindfulness is about being in the now. Not reliving the past, nor fretting about the future. When we practice mindfulness, our anxiety is reduced. Our breathing becomes deeper. Our focus centers around what is happening right there; what you have created is experienced. Our Thanksgiving dinner was a combination of no pressure, good food and drink and all of us being there in spirit. We did not talk about the upcoming what ifs. We did not reminisce about the level of how much we miss our boys. We sat, in the present moment. We were subconsciously mindful.

Grief is a part of our lives. Perhaps we can practice mindfulness during the holidays to help ease the pain that these times bring. We will always miss our loved ones. We will never forget what has happened, our reality. But if we can try to create moments that are filled with what brings us peace and then sit still in those moments, perhaps this practice can bring us closer to truly feeling our loved ones in the chair beside us. And if that can be the feeling, then the chair is not as empty.

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.”

When 27 Candles Come

April 24, 2022 / Mama Fish

At Easter, my daughter made a toast to her guests saying how grateful she was to have them in her home. She said that her wish this year was to spend more time with those she loved as she reached her 27^th birthday; the birthday her brother didn’t get to. And that hit me.

I was told that when younger children approach the age of the sibling who died, there comes with it an irrational fear; a sense of lightning could strike twice in the same place. And from too many accounts of my fellow grief warriors, the answer is it does. My daughter is now the exact same number of days away from her 27^th that Zane was from his when he was killed. And although we have this daily ritual since that fateful day, of her texting me to assure me she got to work safe, got home safe, this week my thoughts live in a dark encompassing fear of ‘what if’.

I did not think I would feel this way. My soul knows that my daughter has a different destiny than her brother. She is a different child than he. But what does that matter? This does not reduce the anxiety. As we approach her birthday, each day I fret a bit more. I need to take deep breaths more. I wake up in cold sweats. I am a mess to which there seems to be no distraction.

I try to rationalize with this paralyzing emotion in me. I tell myself, she will make it, and we will celebrate her and if my heart knows this than I must focus on just this. I think back to when I was planning Zane’s 27^th. I had the perfect gift, a day with an award-winning photographer to take him into the Banff Basins to shoot pictures. Zane had suggested that we start his day with brunch, just the two of us. He commented on feeling excited about this birthday and the future it would bring him. There it is.

It is not so much that something will happen to Payton. Although we know too well tragedy can happen to anyone at any time. It is that Payton will be the age Zane wanted to reach. This day, her 27^th will be overshadowed with all the plans and all the hopes and the dreams that we had for Zane, shortly before his fate was sealed on that early morning highway. Her 27^th birthday should be her own day of celebration and yet it will not be. Intuitively, she is preparing herself to feel the pain of having her older brother not at THIS birthday. She knows this one should have been his to celebrate years before her.

Part of the agony I feel as her mother is knowing that I can’t bring her brother back. We can’t celebrate her birthdays with her older brother. We are travelling into unknown territory again; there is nothing she can compare her upcoming experiences to…”when Zane was ‘my’ age”. She is now the age he will never be.

Fear is a primary emotion connected to loss. That is all this is. It is not all about her reaching the birthday that Zane did not. It is the loss of turning 27, an age that will not bring with it the past comfort and experiences her older brother guided her with. And for me, the fear I am experiencing is not of the unknown dangers of life. What I am feeling is the loss of Zane replayed so very loudly with this menacing 27^th that did not happen for him. This birthday emphasizes our loss. Simple. And yet, so very complicated.

Exercising the Right To Die

January 16, 2022 / Mama Fish

Vera, the mother of a friend of mine, ended up in the hospital during the holidays and was told that her health was not good enough to return home. At a young 94 years, she did not see or hear well, and her body was not going to get better, thus a nursing home would be more suitable. Not wanting any part of that, she called in the family and MAID and selected the date and time she would ‘check out’.

If you knew Vera, this would not surprise you. An artist, in every definition of the word, she lived a full human experience as mother, friend, mentor and life-positive enthusiast. She laughed, she loved a cold gin and she painted everything she touched with an array of happy colors. Her motto was “be true to yourself”. No, it would not be fitting to have her stripped of her independence and art studio to finish her days in a place that she described as depressing. To each his own and for her, the end of the road would come when she could no longer live in her home. That day arrived and she enjoyed family and friends and even hospital food up to the last hour. She was ready. With her family around her, the doctor put her to sleep and off she went to meet up with her beloved husband, family and friends that had gone before her. Peaceful, beautiful and a bit surreal.

I went over to her home after to choose one of her paintings, a gift of her to keep with me. I hugged my friends and listened as they shared pictures of her of that morning and stories of how the experience was for them. And then they went back to cleaning and purging her home to get it ready for sale. I watched. Curious how life doesn’t ever stop for long. For them, it stopped long enough to hold her and wish her goodbye. They are grateful she went out on her own terms. They are grateful that they were able to say all that needed to be said. They are grateful there was no suffering. Truly, as far as death goes, it was a 5-star event.

So, what does the future look like for them? We know there will be grief; it is the other side of love, and she was loved. Does the ability to have a loved one die like that change grief? Does it make it easier? What will their ‘what if’ questions be like, if any? I have never known anyone who has experienced this type of death. I see my friends are sad. I see they are overwhelmed with the tasks at hand to get her estate in order. I see their strength as they gather to get the job done for and in honor of their mother.

I watch. This is the housekeeping of death; preparing for funeral, issuing the will, the robotic actions that we all must do when a loved one leaves. No matter how they leave. These tasks keep grief at bay until they are finished. Oh yes, I remember how this part was for me, like darkened glimpses of a bad movie.

I have put a bottle of wine aside for when grief settles in, I will be there to sit with their pain. And for Vera, my heart is happy for her. I know when I see a beautiful sunset or a field of daisies, the splashing’s of color, natures canvas, painted by the beautiful Angel Vera.

Putting on Yellow Rainboots

January 2, 2022 / Mama Fish

Here we are. 2022. A New Year. And yet nothing has changed. You are still there. I am still here. What will this year bring? More struggle, more sorrow?

What would you want for me? I know not that. And yet, here I am. Perhaps this year I will try something different. Something new. Perhaps this year I will put on yellow rainboots and splash in the puddles of my tears.

Perhaps I will hike, in yellow rainboots to new paths that I know we wanted to travel together. And I will carry my notebook, I will carry your camera. And I will write about these adventures.

I will take this year to notice the signs from you, from heaven, even more so. Your guidance will move me, in yellow rainboots, towards the sites we wish to go.

The rain can splash onto my yellow rainboots, each tiny drop bringing me a memory of you. A reminder that you are always beside me. That we walked this life together and that we still do.

Maybe, just maybe, this could be a better year with a pair of yellow rainboots. A sunny, yellow, symbol of hope. A comfortable, warm, protective apparel to move me forward.

Yes, perhaps this year I will find the strength to carry on with the help of a pair of yellow rainboots.