Tag: #memories

The Proof, Written In the Cards

February 18, 2024 / Mama Fish

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.

Three Cheers for Fathers

June 18, 2023 / Mama Fish

I was blessed to have had 3 fathers share this life with me. Mine, my Godfather, and my father-in-law. Each one I had a very special relationship with that I carry with me long after they have gone. Each man was very different in his career choice, hobbies, and passions. The commonality was each of them was insightful, giving, and protective of those they loved. They did not say too much and did not say it loud. So, when they talked, if you listened, lessons abound. And those lessons, are part of who I am today.

My father worried that God would punish any of his sins through me. I was his first ‘little girl’ and his inability to spare me from harmful experiences molded him into a private detective that cared for me behind the scenes. He was my guardian angel. He was my first experience of kindness. Never did a stranger cross his path that he did not receive something from my father. He was the epitome of ‘do unto others as you would like them do to you’. My desire to nurture comes from him.

My Godfather kept me out of trouble, big and small. I was his girl that met him for lunches and shared my woes and found solutions in each conversation we shared. He stood next to me when I was threatened and guided me to safety. He was my shelter from the storms. He was my first experience of justice. Every situation he faced, he did with integrity to which he practiced in his career and his personal life. He was the epitome of ‘by the Grace of God, go I’. I watched him handle his own battles without a complaint and with the power of a gentle man. My desire to understand comes from him.

My father-in-law took philosophy to a higher level. I was his girl that we could share truths with about life, family, and ourselves. Our heart shared conversations about the things that mattered were a special part of our visits. His sense of humor hugged you like a cozy blanket while your soul giggled. He was my shining light. He was my first experience of self. Never did he condemn another’s actions or dreams. In fact the opposite, he encouraged one to follow their own path with honesty and goodness. He exhibited that in his own behaviors. He was the epitome of ‘to your own self be true’. My desire for discovery comes from him.

I think of each of them every day. Our families celebrate them often. It is hard to believe that they are not still physically here. But I guess that is the thing about fathers. Their absence is softened by the knowledge that their love is imprinted on our hearts. Their lessons a part of our makeup. Our souls know that they will always watch over us. We will always be, ‘their little girl’.

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.”

Packing My Invisible Suitcases

January 9, 2022 / Mama Fish

Since my brother-in-law’s grim diagnosis that the cancer has spread, he has gone back to work. And not just a nine to five shift. No, he has submerged himself, literally locked himself in his office to continue working against his doctor’s advice to quit his job and enjoy the last few months given to him. Classic denial.

In grief, denial is a stage we all experience. My brother-in-law could be spending this time writing letters to his wife to receive after he is gone. He could be mending fences with his son. He could be resting in hopes that taking care of his health might grant him extra time. Denial has replaced all these opportunities with the need to work rather than face his sentence. I get it. If he doesn’t think about it, it won’t happen. If he works hard, time will fly, money will come in, needed money to leave his family. It is almost heroic. It is also small picture. This is the sadness of denial.

I have often said that denial is the stage I could live in. It is a stage that protects my heart from the truth. It is a stage that allows me to ignore my hurt and bask in the concept (the hope) that this is not my reality. The reality that there is nothing you can do to change it. Denial shouts inside of you, “THIS IS NOT HAPPENING” as if this scream could change things. It is loud and upset with God. It keeps me from looking at the big, ugly picture. This is the anger of denial.

And so, when I watch my brother-in-law, I understand. He is living in the stage I go to when the pain is too much. I am patient with him. This is something he needs to wallow in; the denial of the truth that he will not grow old with his beloved wife. I get it. I just hope that he wants to examine his reality, if even for a couple moments, to ensure that when the time does come, he is leaving this realm personally satisfied in how he spent his last months.

I selfishly want him to leave this denial stage for just a bit. There are so many things I want to talk to him about before he goes. There are questions and shared memories and more laughs I want from him before he goes. Knowing he does not have long, I have invisible suitcases that I want to pack full of memories, conversations, understandings that will sustain me after he is gone.

We are told time is not on our side. Who really knows. Past the denial, he is ultimately aware of this. I must remember, this is his life, his time. I must respect how he wishes to spend it. So, I pack my invisible suitcases with all the love and fondness and the gratitude I have for him; folded next to all the things I want to say to him. When he is ready, I will open it up and share. And in the sharing, I hope for more memories with him to add to my suitcases. Alas, if time does not give me this, then I will open my suitcases in ceremony to share with the heavens. And that will have to suffice.

There is No Boxing Up Grief

December 26, 2021 / Mama Fish

It is boxing day. I had thought I wanted to shake up this holiday and it happened. Christmas ended with my daughter going to see her fiancé’s family after giving us a gift to go enjoy the night in Canmore. We took the dog. I drove. It was -28. We found Famous Chinese Food open and shared a dinner for one in our room. We had wine and magazines and appies (previously packed in Calgary to accompany our adventure). All in all, a nice night. Different. The mountains are always a soothing sight and the fact that Payton wished this for me was a gift.

I received some wonderful gifts this season. Among them was a gift from Alyssa. This thoughtful young woman dated Zane and remained friends with our family after Zane was killed. She is the one that filled our home and albums of incredible photos she and Zane had taken on their adventures. Last year, she gave me a framed print of Zane and her sitting on Santa’s knee. This year, she posted a ‘live picture’ of Zane. We could hear his voice and see him smile as he turned in the three seconds of time this photo carried. It was alive. We all enjoyed this gift.

In Canmore, I took my phone out after Jon and I had retired to bed and played this picture. Over and over. Hearing his voice, seeing his gentle shy smile. He was enjoying that day. I began to think of how many days he enjoyed, his adventures with his camera, his friends, the girls that he loved. And my grief came crashing into the room to sit next to me.

I know I am a proponent of taking time out to feel your pain and reflect, meeting your grief face to face. However, on the very cold Christmas night, huddled in the silent room, the hustle of the season faded away, and left me sitting in the middle of a lot of memories of holidays past. My reality became very loud. My holidays are no longer filled with his incredible laugh and tight hugs and no matter what I do to ease the pain, the holidays seem to bring it bubbling to the surface. I know this. We all know this. It is why the holidays are dreaded.

I remembered what we learned about grief bursts. I took a deep breath and closed my phone. I took another deep breath. I poured myself a tea and pet Tango. I curled up with a pillow and reached out to my grief friends online. “Thinking of you…” And then I talked to Zane. “Would love a visit; I know you are here but send me a sign. I am really missing you right now”. I took out a magazine (another gift I received) and started reading it, letting my mind fill with health tips and new recipes to try. And I nodded off to sleep.

We know things don’t get easier; we just grow stronger with practice. And the holidays offer us lots of practice! We shook things up, tried something new. And it was lovely overall. What I realized is, although I don’t want, I need distractions at the holidays. I was reminded that grief travels with you. Santa can’t bring me the miracle I want. The ghosts of Christmas past will show up. I am not surprised by these understandings, but I am a little saddened. And why I think next year I will choose noise and a movie. Distractions have their place. Christmas is one of them.

Thanks for Giving

October 10, 2021 / Mama Fish

“Well, first of the holidays, Thanksgiving, without your contribution of mashed potatoes and gravy. Some of your friends dropped by including Kat who came with a bunch of bananas! I had told her I couldn’t buy them yet because they were what I bought for you, for your smoothies. It was cool she thought of me. I cried… I am thankful this year for family and friends. And Zane, thankful to you for the countless times we shared. You are my sunshine.”

The above was a letter I wrote to Zane on the first Thanksgiving after the crash. Three years later, we nestle, following the restrictions, in our tiny home to celebrate the first event of the upcoming holiday season. Everything is in order. Turkey, stuffing, treats. The table set. The dog has his bone. Everything looks like a Norman Rockwell poster. The ‘empty chair’ is the elephant in the room. Time does not help heal the holidays.

These are the occasions where you need to practice extra selfcare. We tend to overdo, overeat, overdrink. All things that increase grief. We also notice families, social media happy posts, that remind us of what we are missing. Even if everything else is in place and you are surrounded by family and friends, your broken heart hurts more at these times.

I think it does one good to schedule a portion of the day to remove yourself from the activities. For a short time, find yourself alone, in a park or a room or a walk around the block. Feel the big picture. Look up to the skies. Listen to the wind, or the birds, or the water if nearby. Call out to your loved one. Whisper you miss them and that you invite them to come to the dinner table. Have a cry. A good, soul cleansing cry if you can.

Then, at the dinner table, share some of their favorite things about the holiday. Share memories of holidays past. Laugh. Laugh, knowing that your loved one is with you. Their spirit shines.

I am thankful that I am healthy enough to work and to give back to my community.

I give thanks to my friends that give me time and understanding and love. I give thanks to my family who surround me and give me space when I need it.

I am thankful every day of the year, for Zane. For the signs he brings to me that he is near. I am grateful for the many memories I carry in my heart of my sweet boy and the times we shared on earth. I am grateful for the new ways that I am learning to ‘be with my son’ while we are realms apart.

This year, I give thanks for the things that give me hope.

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.

To Change the Room, or Not

February 7, 2021 / Mama Fish

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Grief Comes without Warning

February 1, 2021 / Mama Fish

The black Toyota Scion parked next to my car set me off. This was Zane’s car…the driver was his age. I cried all the way to the grocery store. I fixed my make up and went inside to shop. Then the song came over the intercom. A song Zane shared with me and the words sliced me in half. I am crying, bent over the shopping cart, hoping no one will come down the aisle while I try to pull myself together.

Joey, the cashier, asks me how I am doing. “Fine, thank you”, I say and turn my head so not to cry again. He tells me about how his staff can’t figure out why he smiles all the time. How he is happy because it is so much lighter than being sad. He says he is an empath. And that was all I needed. I burst into a full-on raging sob. I am apologizing as he is asking me what’s wrong, am I ok. I am crying how I just lost my son and he was an empath, how he would say these sorts of things and how life now sucks…

I felt for poor Joey, that sweet, smiling empath. I am sure he needed an energy bath after my tantrum. He holds my hands and whispers; “I’m sorry for your son”. I apologize, again, and ask him to keep smiling. He is a light for all of us. I leave, sobbing all the way to the car.

Mourning is good for us-it is grief expressed. I should be really good at it. But I seem to be worse. I am a shell; a now, aching, pressured, and screaming mess. I can’t fix this. The biggest thing I need to fix, I can’t. The pain is unbearable.

I wrote the above experience in my journal in April of 2019. 8 months after Zane was killed. Flash forward another 21 months and I am having a bad day, struggling with grief and find myself grocery shopping, albeit in a different store, and a similar song comes on. My eyes fill with tears. But this time is different.

This time, time has passed, although it still feels like yesterday. I have had (lots of) practice with handling grief bursts in public. I have had training reaching out to my son on his new realm. I have a better realization of what are signs, postcards, being sent to me. I am more secure in my belief that Zane is still with me. So I say, quietly, out loud; “hey Zane, love this song, need you here to listen to it with me”. I hold out my hand to my side. It is my way of feeling how my son would have held my hand. It gives me reassurance. And I take my moment. And yes, I stand in the aisle hurting, grief crashing down on me. But this one time, I am not drowning. I feel my son. I know he is near and I take a deep breath to push my cart forward. And I thank Zane for helping me through this moment.

I can’t say this happens every time. I can’t say it happens often. But when it does, I am grateful the waves of grief are not all consuming. These manageable moments strengthen my hope that I may have the ability to move forward. With the memories of when Zane was physically here and the new memories I experience with him in spirit.