Good Mourning Grief

A blog about my adventures as a grief warrior

Tag: #zaneforever26 (Page 5 of 5)

To Zane, on the Fourth Anniversary

August 7, 2022 /

Dear Zane,

It has been four years today,

an indescribable hell

trying to live in this realm

knowing you live in the other

It has been four years of ugly rituals

like crying every morning

and screaming every day in the car

It has been four years of not believing, believing

And then not believing again

It has been four years of mockery

watching my friends’ kids do, be, experience

what was to be for you

It has been four years of anger

Not able to comfort your sister

Or any of us from this pain…

It has also been four years of honoring you,

asserting you are still here,

friends and family include you

in our daily lives

which brings some peace

as a mother’s greatest fear is 

there will come a time

when life goes on without you.

It has been four years learning

that the diminutive conciliation

of holding your hand

are unexpected symbols,

enigmatic Instagram posts

feathers on our path

dragonfly on the window

bubbles and balloons

signs that I cling to

as oxygen, for my own survival

There is also the Universe’s gift,

the subconscious reality through nighttime slumber

where I can feel your hug, hear your laugh 

our moonlight conversations,

when morning arrives,

my broken heart holds tight to

giving the energy I need to walk another day

It has been four years today, my sweet boy

and if I have understood only one thing

It is that my love for you is endless

as are the tears I cry.

When 27 Candles Come

April 24, 2022 /

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 27th 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 27th 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 27th.  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 27th 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 27th 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 27th that did not happen for him.  This birthday emphasizes our loss. Simple. And yet, so very complicated.

Joy In Its New Form

April 10, 2022 /

When we downsized it was with the plan to buy a small weekend retreat in Canmore with the extra money from the sale of our house. Over the last year we have been looking for just the perfect spot. What I thought would be a simple and exciting adventure has turned into a battle of endless meetings with mortgage specialists, bankers, realtors, and insurance agents. It has not been easy. At the end of the day, we did find a little treasure with a beautiful mountain view.  It checks off all the boxes of a place that will be there for family and friends to rejuvenate in. So why am I not ecstatic?

Grief has a way of playing with our emotions and depleting our energy. The work we have put into getting this place and my fears around will this investment pay off have clouded the fact that I now own my small piece of heaven. It is further complicated by the fact that this is Zane’s wish, and he will not physically be able to join me. I have no energy left to feel joy.

When joy tries to enter our lives after we have lost a loved one, we seem to question it. Perhaps because it is different than the joy we had experienced before loss. Joy has become a stranger to the heartbreak we have been consumed with. When it arrives now, it is softer.  It is quieter. It brings with it that nasty bittersweet taste. It brings with it guilt.  It brings with it a tone of sadness. The reminder of ‘how life should be’ is not what we hold. Joy, after grief, is more complicated.

I heard my husband say to a friend that he watched me walk into our (new) condo and my smile was something he has not seen since Zane left. I didn’t realize I had smiled. I do know that on the balcony, facing the mountains, I could feel his spirit. I could feel an invisible hug from the mountains whispering to me, “welcome home”. And that feeling brought me to tears and standing there alone I thought to myself perhaps there can be healing here.

With that wee bit of hope, I pondered later how could I bring the joy of this place to fruition. How can I let go to really be happy about what we have? And I realized that I need to bring Zane in.  I need to do what we grief warriors have been taught to do. In everything we do, we must honor those we have lost. If this is going to be a place of healing, it must have some characteristics of those I miss.  It must reflect their likes and it must be filled with treasures that bring me peace. How do I turn our revenue property into a place of healing? Not just for me, but for anyone who comes into our place.  How do I create an environment that will bring comfort and joy?

With that, my energy raised. I have a place that I can turn into a safe spot where my soul can experience a reprieve. I can take my bittersweet, melancholy life and plop it in front of the majestic mountain view, allowing nature to do what she does best. Ground me. Connect me. Remind me that Zane is still here. This plan of action opens my heart for joy, in its new form, to arrive.

Three Years Later

August 8, 2021 /

I woke up August 7th, the day marking three years since Zane was killed. I poured a tea and sat in the early morning light and wrote to Zane. “I went to bed last night, begging you to stay out, to not be on the road as if somehow that plea could take us back in time and I would wake up from this nightmare”.

At three years, shock is not the right word.  Disbelief is better.  Anger is still the number one emotion.  Hope is the same; that I will be able to have a relationship with him in some new cosmic way.  Loneliness has increased alongside heartache. The messages from friends and loved ones who say they hold us in their thoughts are comforting.  I am grateful that they remember.

Our family discusses how the last three years have been.  We agree that the first was numb; we are only now starting to remember the details of that year.  The second was brutal because shock is less which leaves you feeling the pain of grief more accurately.  The second year also brought with it the realization that grief will be with us, for the rest of our lives.  And that is disturbing.  It leaves you to try to come to grasps that you will never be the same. 

So, what does the third year bring? I am thinking we should take the learnings and the awareness of our last two years and start to shape our new beings.  We can’t escape grief.  It is a huge and everlasting part of our make-up now.  Maybe the third year will offer us a bit more strength to face our grief and build around it.   Maybe it will introduce us to ways we can do that. Maybe we can hope that this is the year grief doesn’t beat us up as often.  (Although I will not hold my breath about that.)

Whatever it does or doesn’t bring, it is here.  And we summon the courage to face it. 

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