Tag: #loss (Page 4 of 5)

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.

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.