Tag: #loss (Page 4 of 4)

Healing Messages from Hallmark Movies

December 19, 2021 / Mama Fish

I am a sucker for Hallmark movies. They are my brain candy. Zane would laugh at me, as I would tape and then binge watch into the summer months! He called me cute. I now believe that the messages of these gentle and comforting movies are sent from above.

Since Zane’s death, I have found that there is some sort of cosmic coincidence that I choose a certain movie from the collection of recordings on a particular day, that has a specific message I need to hear, on that day. Such was the movie, “Debbie Macomber’s A Mrs. Miracle Christmas”. A story of loss; a woman who lost a daughter, and recently her husband, her granddaughter, having lost her mother at six and most recently her foster child (although the foster child did not die, he went back to his biological mother) and even Mrs. Miracle, obviously the angel sent to ‘fix’ their broken hearts…she too had lost a child. The irony of watching all their broken hearts, stuck in grief, and trying to move forward. Who can’t relate to this? I was crying before the first advertisement.

What I love about Hallmark movies is that there is always a peaceful ending. There is always hope. This one did not disappoint. The obvious messages: have faith, lean on your friends for support, honor your loved ones (here and those who have passed) were loud and clear. It is the subliminal messages that, if you watch closer, are the messages from heaven. Or, for me, come from Zane.

This movie told us of an angel who knew firsthand the impact of losing a child and yet she continued, serving others, holding her faith, experiencing joy in her every day. And why? Because she knew life was eternal. She knew her daughter existed, and that they would see each other again. There was the message for the granddaughter who is reminded that her role is of mother. Mother is a role that is shared with your own children and those children who ‘show up’ in your life for however short a time that might be. You are always mother. And Grandma…yes, she heals and moves forward but the more important, quieter message is that she moves forward because she embraces her grief and finds ways to make friends with it.

Oh Hallmark, I don’t know what I would do without you. Your movies have become a lifeline to tuning out the current reality for a bit and immersing myself in the hope and joy found in your characters. Whose message, magically, sticks with me and gives me strength to go on.

Thank you, Zane, for picking out just the right messages that I need to hear. Or be reminded of. This last movie was a doozy; I needed to be reminded I am always mother, that you are here if I just ‘see’ you. And that my grief will one day softly live in the ways in which I honor you. There is hope I will feel joy again. And that is the Christmas gift from Hallmark.

Goodbye, Excalibur

October 31, 2021 / Mama Fish

This week we lost and buried another family member. Excalibur, my daughter’s leopard gecko died peacefully, surrounded by family. I know it was ‘just a lizard’ but this little guy was with us for 13 years. As Payton came and went with her busy life, mama was left to tend to him, feed him and enjoy him. We were told years ago that he would not live long as he refused to eat anything but dead worms. They are like a chocolate bar the vet told us. He must eat crickets. But he would not. And I was ok with that as the whole non-vegetarian diet creeped me out. I could handle putting a small dead worm on his plate and watch him gobble it up. Easy. He loved to sit on a cushion beside you; he did not run around or away. He reminded us very much of the gecko you find on the TV ad. He carried that much personality in his 6-ounce body!

Our pets, regardless of its type, are family members. They experience life with us, and they become part of our routine. We have memories of shared times with them. We love them. When Excalibur passed, I packed up all his belongings and cried for two days. I would wait to hear him at night and then remember he was gone. I would go to turn on his light and he was gone. Gone, bringing grief to the forefront.

I have been sensitive all week. I have been unfocused and not much got done. I am aware now, with the experience of loss, that I am grieving. And I allowed myself to do so. I cancelled meetings and took a drive to Canmore and sat in the park. The grief of losing Excalibur just adds to my already broken heart.

As he was a pet who lived to an old age, I will not ponder on the events and experiences he will miss out on. I will remember how he made me smile and will not burst into a flood of tears over it. I do not feel cheated as I do with the deaths of other family members. That is the complexity of grief. With every loss, you feel it, but the intensity can be different. Grief can come in soft, more melancholy at times. I guess it depends on the circumstances.

We hosted a small memorial for Excalibur. Just our family, with Zane watching over. Payton somehow found a bit of peace knowing that her gecko’s spirit was now free to roam the realms with her big brother. I came home to feel his absence. And ponder how could I honor this sweet little creature that brought so much love to our family over the years. Rest in Peace, sweet little gecko. And know that you brought such joy to each of us. A life well lived; you will always be in our hearts.

The Armor We Wear

October 3, 2021 / Mama Fish

A year ago, my friend shared the news that her 32-year-old daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer. This past month, she and her husband walked their baby girl down the aisle, cancer free, to be married to the love of her life. A truly joyous time.

I watched the video. Her fiancé looked much like Zane, similar style of dress, shoes, colors. His groomsmen came up the aisle one at a time and kissed him on the lips, bringing laughter to the moment. I can imagine Zane’s friends would do something like that. Friends who are more like brothers.

I watched the couple exchange their vows and the smiles on the faces of family and friends. It was a happy ending to a scary time for them. And a happy beginning, all rolled into one beautiful, sunny afternoon.

As grief warriors, these are times where you need to put on your full armor. Each celebratory scene bludgeons you with a pain, an anger of why this can’t happen for my child. Why did they have a horrific scare that they could overcome. Did overcome. How is this fair for my son? How is this scene not my life? The armor helps cover the heart so that I can be happy for my friend. This is her moment. And she deserves it. I am thrilled that their sleepless nights and worry is in submission. Worry will always be a part of motherhood but today, she relishes in the joy of seeing her daughter be married. And the fact life has made this an impossibility for us, for Zane, brings bittersweet to a breathtaking, internal scream.

My friend, in her excitement to share has no idea. The invisible armor I wear holds my pain in so all she can see is my smile and all she can hear is “Congratulations, I am so happy for all of you.” And I am.

The scare of the unknown that ravished my friend’s days for a year or so prior to this day also carried hope. There lived, during her daughter’s fight, opportunity to express love and time to share one more hug. In sudden death, this is all taken away from you. One moment life is and the very next you are told it’s gone. There is a cosmic injustice to this. Why God creates miracles everyday and yet saving my child was not one of them.

That night, I find myself alone. I take my armor off and the tears flood. I am so jealous that my fate is not as kind as my friends. And this is the life of those in the grief community. We carry within us the strength to put aside our pain to be happy for our friends’ joys. It fills you with such mixed emotions that we must plan to be gentle with ourselves after sharing their joy. We must find ways that bring a little comfort to the hell of not having the same. The armor we wear, does nothing for this emptiness. The armor we wear is for those around us. It pretends, “I’m ok”.

“Bearing the Unbearable” by Joanne Cacciatore, PhD

September 26, 2021 / Mama Fish

The beautiful Dr. Joanne Cacciatore is, among many things, a bereaved mother. Her book “Bearing the Unbearable” is a collection of shared grief of many mourners who walk the path of loss. Through these shared stories, we connect and find hope and understanding to support our own grief.

She speaks of the necessity of contraction and expansion; taking time for inward healing and thus giving us the energy to lean outwards for support. We must surrender to this pain, fighting it will only increase our sadness, surrendering to the tidal wave of emotion, will help soften our grief.

My favorite lesson is that of the necessity to own our pain. She writes, “Turning toward the shattered pieces of ourselves, choosing to stand in the pain, is a serious responsibility. When we remember our beloved dead, we bridge the gap of space and time between us and them and bring them back into the whole of our reality.”

She assures us that remembering our loved ones is what we need to do, quoting Soren Kierkegaard; “…remembering our dead epitomizes the most unselfish, freest, and most faithful type of love-a love willing to suffer for itself, so that it can continue to exist.” She speaks of how we might do this by paying it forward with a donation or act of kindness in honor of our loved one.

She believes that grief transforms from the individual into the collective and that it is us, the bereaved who can heal our world. I have always said we are in this together, long before my life was torn apart. I have this personality glitch that I am ok only when everyone else is ok. As a mother and a caregiver all my life, Dr. Cacciatore is telling me, I now belong to a community that can heal our world. The irony of this amuses me. I live to help heal my little corner of the world and the fact that what has happened to me with Zane gives me more responsibility and entitlement to continue doing what I felt my purpose was. I don’t want this. And yet, here it is, the Universe has sealed my purpose. Today it scares me. Tomorrow, it will surely encourage me. My grief can be my fuel.

As women, our ‘mama bear’ is in our DNA and death does not kill that. There is a lot of healing to do. Whatever the reason that brought you into this hell, maybe there is opportunity to help heal that area on a scale bigger than you. First, we must learn how to live with our grief. This will help heal ourselves, and perhaps then we can find the energy to heal our world.

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.

Pictures of Loss

May 23, 2021 / Mama Fish

Grief comes back to haunt you when you move. As we come to the final round of preparing to leave the home we raised our children in, I am in awe of the endless amount of sentimental clutter that I have no room for. I have my grandmothers, my mothers and my own china. I have blankets and linen from aunts, grandparents and great grandparents. I have furniture that my grandfather made, my grandmother cared for, my father made and my mother loved. I realize I have been blessed to be the caregiver of their valued items for so many years. And then there are all of Zane’s things.

Each item holds not one but many cherished stories of its history and its purpose. Each item has been with me for over 30 years…some since I was a child. Giving up the material things we love brings grief with it. I am saddened that I no longer have the capacity to keep these things and somehow, because of this, I feel like I am failing those I love who have moved on and left me with their personal possessions. This is about my son, about my parents, about all those I have lost whose material items stay with me.

This is a new grief I had not experienced before. This grief is a slap-in-the-face sort of feeling that there is a concrete end. In my new place, these things will never be. Only the memory of them will be. And that brings me back to the centre of my grief around losing not just the items, but the person attached to these items.

The imprinted energy will be gone. The physical touch will be gone. The visual sight…wait, can I keep the visual sight? And then it hit me. I wrote about this (Grief Hits home); it was a suggestion to take pictures of each thing I must ‘leave behind’. What if I have a collection of photos (at the end of the day) of all the cherished items that when I am missing them, I can look at the picture and see their glory? So, I have been doing that. I have taken a picture of each item that I will not be taking with me.

Yes, I am strategically taking what I know I can’t leave behind without regret. And then there are some that I am leaving behind that I hope I won’t regret. (But I will have their picture). And then, there is still some, and probably too many, but these things I will bring with me. And in my new place, in some future time, I will have the ability to release them to their new life. Just not now.

The items that I have said good-by to, I have found comfort when I find them a new loving home. My Aunt’s beloved dresser is getting a face lift (thank you Karen) and will find a new home. The island sold to the single father who said he was going to use it to do his rice wraps on for his children brought comfort to me. The young woman who took Zane’s bathroom shelf said “it is the piece I have been looking for to fit in my home”. That made me smile.

Each of these items has a picture which honors them by creating a scrapbook of sorts of all of them that will include their moving away story. And with that choice, I am finding some peace.

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.

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.

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.