Topic: Grief

Elephants have a gestation of 22 months.  That's a long time to be pregnant...can you imagine the swollen ankles and trips up at night to pee for months and months on end for the average pachyderm?  But the result is so worth the wait:

Today my sister in law’s “pregnancy” ended—gestation of 64 months…over 5 years. Beat the elephant by a mile. I’m a new auntie, as her arms were at last filled with the little one who has been waited and longed for. It’s a beautiful picture that I’ve looked at dozens of times today when it was emailed from halfway across the world.  There she is, with the biggest grin on her face, the faces of the rest of the family just glowing...even after 2 1/2 days of travel immediately before.

B, like many adoptive moms, has not had the pain (and privilege) of a sore back and stretch marks for this child, but has the very different pain of unexpected delays, repeated form completion, “just one more step” more times that can be counted, more unexpected delays, multiple layers of beaureaucracy to adopt her little girl. It was an ordeal to wait much longer than had been originally anticipated, and she and my brother have anxiously checked websites and talked with others to gain what information they could as they waited and waited and waited….and waited some more.

I’ve learned much about the experience of waiting for a chosen child over the last months. Indeed over the last years, I’ve watched my brother, his wife, and their children as they wait. I’ve had other friends wait for children from Ethiopia, or China, or Haiti and the US. I’ve worked with families experiencing infertility and adoption anguish. But these last months, there are times when I myself have felt such longing for my niece that I’ve found myself spending hours at a time floating around the blog world of the adoption experience, reading and soaking up much information about the topic. It was a little way I could feel a little less lonely and a little more connected to the little one.  I realize my situation is not nearly the same as a parent's, but I've been waiting for her too.  It’s been alternately heartwarming and gutwrenching to read of the experiences

Highlights of what I’ve learned:

1. The adoption triad: The birth parent(s), the adoptive parent(s), the child. Each member of the adoption triad has different joys, challenges, and pain.

• For many birth parents, giving up a child to be raised by another set of parents involves insight, wisdom, and an ability to see beyond the immediate pull to know what is realistic and optimal. It is an act of selflessness to release the child into the arms of another. The loss of a birth parent continues for life. I was moved by adoptive parents recognizing and acknowledging the joy they receive is as a result of extremely painful life situation of the birth parents (death, illness, poverty, limited resources). 
  
• The adoptive parents have longed for and desired a child. Many, though not all, have also undergone the challenges and pain of infertility for years before the arduous decision and process of adoption. Adoptive parents undergo a rigourous examination of their fitness to be parents that many birth parents would be horrified by. They are forced to be vulnerable in exposing many facets of their lives to social workers, and to make difficult choices about what sort of child they would accept. It seems the only consistent thing about adoption is the inconsistency of paperwork and process. Misunderstanding abound as there is multiple languages, cultures, and political systems involved in layers of beaureacracy in multiple countries. Waiting is a skill that all adoptive parents get plenty of practice at.
  
• Children: At the center of it all are the children…deeply loved. Some have been in orphanages for varying amounts of time, with varying levels of funding and, therefore, child care support. These children, while having great opportunities for health care, education, quality of life, and incredibly loving parents, are pulled from the familiar environments and must adjust to living with people who are initially strangers, often speaking another language, serving different foods and so on. No matter how loving the adoptive parents are, many still feel a gaping hole in their souls where the connection to the mother who carried them for 9 months and then perhaps more was severed. That longing for the place and people from which they came can be present for a lifetime in an unutterable fashion.

2. Adoption blogs abound. Each member of the adoption triad has something to write about, and many, many blogs are well written, poignant stories of waiting and wanting by adoptive parents, longing and regret from birth parents, and confusion and sorting out by adopted children, now adults. People like to write about adoption, to tell their stories. There seems to be healing in sharing the ups and downs…there are higher highs and lower lows during this process than can be imagined. There seems to be significant clusters of people that spontaneously and organically form that support each other as they share similar experiences, the same adoption agency, adopt children from the same country and so on. The support they give each other is incredible to virtually witness. People can be incredibly kind to one another.

3. Adoption is something that continues to make many people uncomfortable. My little niece is utterly beautiful. She’s also clearly of a different ethnic background than my brother and his wife. From what I’ve read, well meaning but uninformed comments will be spoken to them that will emphasize her differentness, set her apart, or ask question which will be naïve and potentially hurtful. Many adoptive parents work hard to be gracious, but imagine the punch in the gut a woman feels when she proudly enters the store with her child in her arms after waiting for years and someone asks: “Where do her REAL parents live?” Ouch. Imagine the confusion of a child who is very much a part of a family and a culture, yet at various times is reminded that s/he is not like the others.  Many bloggers would "blow off steam" with some of the outrageous things they heard.

4. Attachment is huge. At Bergen and Associates Counselling, we operate very much out of “attachment theory” which suggests that we as human beings are wired to connect very closely to our primary caregivers, and that that close connection is key to helping us feel safe in a world which can be scary. That primary caregiver works with the child to help discover their world by being a secure base from which to explore the world. These attachments are critical in setting us up for healthy friendships and marriages in life. Many in the adoption world understand the complexities of attachment, the way in which our brains are wired for and by healthy attachment, and are incredibly aware that adoptions need to occur with secure attachment/secure base needs of a child in mind. The willingness to explore and understand brain science, child development, and healthy faciitation of that in creative ways is incredible. I so admired the lengths adoptive parents go through to help their child bond with them, providing incredible levels of support and security to children who struggle with the terror of so much change in their young lives.

I could go on and on about the profoundness and complexity. But I’ll stop. Not only do I have to go look at the beautiful photo of my niece surrounded by the members of her immediate family (one more time, or maybe 2 or 3), I have to check the blog of a friend for updates, who you’ll note in my August 22, 2010 blog entry, wrote a comment that she has just received her referral. This is after 10 years of waiting…five and a half times as long as an elephant’s gestation! I don’t believe ecstatic is a word that accurately describes her level of jubilation. Congrats, big time, R!

 

...of June 18th. Made it.  Another anniversary of the ones I've loved and lost, remembered, and mourned has passed.

The days leading up to the 18^th have an increasing sense of dread, as the memories rise closer to the surface than they are at other times of the year. It’s a bit of a relief to get past the 18^th again, though the desire to pause and remember on this day for me is strong.

I went for a long walk the other day, and odd thoughts popped into my head as I remembered the time years ago when my loved ones died:

• Dr. Resident (can’t remember his real name) coming in to tell us there was no hope. He hated giving bad news…that was clear…his awkwardness had a sweetness and compassion to it that I’ll always remember. I’ll also remember his fly was open…an odd thing to remember, but just as gales of laughter can dissolve into tears, it actually works the other way around. As Dr. Resident would come in and out of the room, we would notice that it was still open (nothing obscene, but just the concept is embaressing) and our tears would be interrupted with tense giggles. Thank you, Dr. for those inadvertent moments of comic relief. It kept me from going over the edge of despair at a time when I had things I needed to get done.
• I remembered the physical ache in my chest, that I couldn’t figure out. Was it a pressure that felt like it was going to explode? Or implode? Or perhaps both? Grief hurts…not just emotionally, but in a real way.
• I recall the way my brain got fuzzy and stopped working like it usually did. I remember having trouble being interested in anything. I couldn’t focus or concentrate. Thinking that usually came easy now seemed impossible. I remember wondering if I seriously was losing my mind. Was I ever going to be able to function? I couldn’t read…well, I could read, but the words and paragraphs didn’t come together to make sense, and I would reread it, hoping I could do it. I remember starting with the Reader’s Digest…seeing if I could do 2 pages at a time, and slowly working my way back up. 
• I remember the loss of purpose, and aimlessness I had after my loss. What was the point of anything? I scrambled ridiculously to recapture some meaning, to fill this enormous hole in some way, however inadequately…I decided I would try something new. One afternoon, wonton soup became my mission in life. Only I didn’t have bok choy like the recipe called for. I didn’t know about bok choy, had never used it, and the nearby store didn’t have it. I became frantic to track down bok choy, needing to get this soup ready, like it was the last big task in life. In a ways that is only now quite funny, that wonton soup became something so significant—a frantic need to feel a little less out of control, to have something go right, to have something go well—the wonton soup was completed! I haven’t made it since.
• I remember that weeks after, someone made a joke and I laughed. The first time, a gut splitting peal of laughter that was a genuine response to something that hit my funny bone. And then I stopped and cried, and felt terrible, irrational guilt. How could I ever enjoy something when 2 that I cared so much about were dead? And I began to figure out how I would reconcile a life that continued even those the lives of those I loved did not.
• I remember my prayer for months and years after…asking, in advance, for God’s understanding that when I hit those pearly gates, there were 2 that I was going to make a beeline for, to give them a hug. Only after that, would I approach my Maker.  I assume God will be compassionate and "get it"
  

 I can function on the 18^th of June now…have been able to for some years. I compartmentalize, knowing very much it is the day, but putting it off to the side while I meet with people experiencing their own struggles, and witness the bravery of my clients. I can do good work. I make phone calls, write notes, respond to emails—I think genuinely able to engage with the tasks of the day, thought the day’s significance is never far away. The flowers Melanie has put on my desk remind me she hasn’t forgotten either. I get an email or two of those who remember with me…and then the time comes when I can turn my full attention to the importance of the day.

Yesterday, as I do every year, I went to the florist to purchase flowers for the grave, I struggled, as I always do each year, to maintain my composure. I’d rather not distress the florist by dissolving into tears, so I work to have a balance allowing myself to acknowledge the sadness that necessitates this purchase and distracting myself when tears threaten to spill over.  

The sky wept with me as I spent time graveside, remembering what was, and wishing for what might have been. Asking myselfs all the “what ifs” that I do every year, and wishing it were different.  It felt right that it was raining.

And I woke up this morning and it was the 19^th of June. Made it. The loss is still there, but the usual layer of scar tissue is back over it. Places to go, people to see. I am OK.

...on a cloudy day.

A dear friend remembers my loss years later with daisies that show up at my door annually.  Bright, pure, innocent daisies that tell me she understands my grief that lingers years later.  Beautiful, alive daisies that tells me she cares, and remembers.  Daisies that have showed up at my door during years when she was unemployed and strapped for cash.  One year, daisies  appeared at my door, sent by her the day before she got married. Daisies that have shown up on my door annually on this day, sometimes on sunny and cloudy days.  But always on those days, my soul is cloudy and these daisies bring a welcome dose of hope that feels a little like warm sunshine.

Loyal acts friendship mean so much...it's profound to know one is being thought about by others.

Pain is a funny thing.  It can be hidden and sneak up and catch a person unawware.

Years ago, back when I was young and foolish, I went to bed really really late one night...and had to get up really early for work. The night was going to be short…almost more of a nap than a night’s rest, it seemed like, and so I thought I wouldn’t bother taking my contacts out.

 

These were not the sort of contacts that were meant to be in my eyes for sleeping. I knew that. But I figured that a few hours wouldn’t bother, and it would save me a few minutes at either end of the night—giving me an extra 5 minutes of winks.

Bad. Decision.

As I rolled over in the night, I musta opened my eyes a bit. I found out later that my contacts moved with my eyelids over very dry eyes, scratching my eyeballs, creating corneal abrasions...I understand that corneas are the most sensitive surface of the body. I can believe it.

My right eye hurt. Bad. Really. Bad. 

My short night of sleep now disappeared into no sleep as I needed to go to the hospital, because while I didn’t know what was wrong at the time, I knew that I was in some serious pain.

I couldn’t believe how much my right eye hurt. It really hurt. I knew it was my fault, and it was unnecessary, and silly, but mostly I just couldn’t believe how much that eye hurt. After some hours at the emergency where I paced back and forth in distress, the eye doctor did his thing and came up with his diagnosis. He said that the both eyes had some damage, they would heal themselves in just a couple of days, the right being worse than the left. I knew that. He didn’t have to tell me—my right eye was telling me that very clearly.

He said he could put an anesthetic in my eye that would stop the pain…but it would make my eye completely defenseless, and so he would have to patch it for my protection. So…he wasn’t willing to do 2 eyes, rendering me sightless (because I think he didn’t trust me to keep the patches over both eyes for that long)—therefore, anesthetic only on one eye.

My right eye was begging for relief…it hurt so much. I didn’t care about treating the left eye. It wasn’t bothering me like the right. So he put the drop in my right eye. Instant relief.

For the right eye.

But now the left one hurt.

Not as bad as the right one had, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t still hurting--quite a lot.

I hadn’t noticed the pain in the left eye, until the right one had subsided. When the initial pain of the worse eye was treated, it created room on my radar to feel the left eye pain. I ended up staying home from work that day, trying, largely in vain, to get some sleep. While the excruciating pain of the right eye was gone, the substantial pain in the left eye was significantly bothersome.

Ouch.

It happened again this weekend.

No…not the sleeping in my contact creating eye damage thing. I’m a little like Anne of Green Gables that way: “That's the one good thing about me. I never do the same wrong thing twice.” Once was enough to prompt me to never make that error again—that much pain makes me a quick learner. ;)

What happened again this weekend was the “you only realize the other pain once the first one dies down” thing.

This weekend I spoke with someone I hadn’t spoken to in years…someone who was near and dear to me at one time. However, she became lost to me at a time in my life when I lost so much. It wasn’t an insignificant thing to lose her friendship—but it was just that the other losses were so much more significant, it hardly made it on the radar.

But this weekend, when I had reason to speak to her about a matter, I heard her, and laughed with her, and had a chance to enjoy her.  I realized in a way I hadn’t ever realized, how hard it was not to be friends with her. How much I missed her. How much I had lost when I lost her.

And I felt like I grieved that loss for the first time.

Which was weird, because, like I wrote, it happened years ago.

I’m not the only person this has happened to though. I have had clients wondering why, after losing a spouse, they find themselves crying more the second year than the first after the loss. 

The second year is when a person notices the other secondary losses…she feels “out of the loop” as the group of couples that they always used to hang out with don’t include her when they purchase the tickets for the theatre, or she has little contact with his golfing buddies who no longer stop by their place for a beer after their game. Or when it snows, all the shoveling is up to her. Or how hard it is to open the can of pickles without help, or put the storm windows in, or how it seems hardly worth it at all to bother to make a stir fry—because the other family members won’t eat it, but when he was around, his appreciation for it seemed worth it. The secondary losses are real and painful, but often not immediately noticed.

That happens with a job…losing the paycheck and the meaning it gave was the big loss. Months later, a person begins to realize how they missed the annual fall event, or wonder how a fellow co-worker is doing, or misses the hilarious antics as recalled by another co-worker.

That happens with almost any loss, that it can be a “loss that keeps on losing”. The ripple effect of a loss can catch one unawares, and suddenly, in the middle of what is otherwise an ordinary day, one is quickly reminded of the effect of a loss. 

No easy answers on this one, just a quiet aknowledgement that when the little secondary losses hit, they may not have the raw agony of the initial pain, but they sure sting.

Years ago, I was in the hospital for a time, staying with crucially and dangerously ill people whom I loved who were not expected to "make it".  Laying vigil with imminent death nearby was painfully excruciating.  Friends and family would drop by, as part of showing love and care, often wanting to "cheer me up". They would tell funny stories to distract me. Some would offer platitudes to reassure me. They meant well, and I could remind myself of that as my face would smile at the conversations, and I would hear the love and the good intention of their words. Inside, I would die a little myself in the loneliness of my despair.

I had one visitor who said very little. I hardly knew him at the time. There is one sentence he said that I will never forget. It meant a lot. I felt understood. He “hit the nail on the head” and calmly stated his own experience in a way that echoed the silent screams inside of me. I don’t think he said much else, but I don’t remember. I certainly don’t remember anything else that anybody said to me during those dark days, but I remember this line:

“I hate this shitty place.”

Can’t tell you how that line encouraged me. Might seem odd to you how incredibly healing that line was. He’d had a family member die on that same ward a few months before. His ability to encapsulate the dread and the pain and the sorrow and just “say it like it is” was something I found of great comfort. Something I’ve gone back to over the years, and remembered fondly. A line that had me respect and like him ever since. His candidness was refreshing and soothing.

Reminds me of a radio spot I’ve heard a couple of times in the last weeks. I found the story online:

Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child.

The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there.

When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, "Nothing, I just helped him cry."

It takes wisdom of one who’s been there, or perhaps the wisdom of a child to know that often there is no “making it better”—but that “being there” with someone in the darkness provides a place of safety, a place to just grieve. It is valuable to have someone understand the need to stand vigil with a person who is in an unutterably dark place—for whom “feeling better” is unattainable, maybe even dishonorouring to the situation/loss. 

To connect with a person at the bottom of a pit means joining them down there in that pit. Getting a ladder and climbing down and sitting in the icky mud at the bottom. I’ve talked with people fortunate to have had someone join them in their grief. It takes courage to “go there” trusting you won’t be sucked under. You won’t be. But many aren’t sure of that going in.

There is an overwhelming need to want to “fix it” when a loved one is in distress. People who solve problems, make account ledgers balance, engineer complex bridges, pull off concert events successfully—when they see someone they care about struggling under the weight of loss, the automatic instinct is to go in there and make it better.

Except trying to make it better makes it worse…it minimizes the person’s experience into something that can be resolved with a chipper conversation. That’s hard for a “fixer” to understand.

So…if you’re at the bottom, struggling under the weight of sadness and struggle, and you have someone who is working hard to “fix you” into cheerfulness—show them this blog entry. Print it off and give it to them. Ask them to help you cry. Ask them to understand the value of standing vigil in supportive silence as you weep. Ask them to find the courage to join you where you are, rather than attempting to pull you to their good place (they might try, but it won’t work). They might pass you Kleenex, they might ask you to go for a quiet walk, or simply enfold you in a warm embrace that won’t stop. They might offer you a sandwich and silence.

The ironic thing is that after someone helps you cry, you will feel a little better...OK, maybe not any better, but maybe a little "less worse".

Anniversaries are often times of marking and celebrating...wedding anniversaries are a time to rembmer and celebrate the union of husband and wife.  Often on those times, there is a special marking of the day, sometimes watching the wedding video, flipping through the photo album, or going out for dinner and remembering the day and the highlights since.  Other anniversaries are fun too--remembering the opening of a business, or celebrating the day you moved into this house that has now become such a home, or the day someone special came to live with you.

Anniversaries can become points of pain, though. 

• A wedding anniversary is incredibly bittersweet when the spouse has died, and the special day is marked alone, remembering all that once was, and all that now isn’t. 
• Or the delight of a long ago new start—the excitement of something new and life-giving now is remembered with bitterness and cynicism with the failure of the new venture.
• Remembering the day of hope of a life spent together well into old age through the modern day lens of betrayal and abandonment, makes it painful to remember the wedding day after the divorce papers arrive.

Anniversaries aren’t always the joy filled delightful experiences when what started with optimism and anticipation is, for one reason or another, not that way. And yet, the filter of loss, if we’re blessed, doesn’t squeeze out the hope of the day long ago. The memory of the joy of the original day doesn’t have to be poisoned or tainted by the loss.

Affected—Yes.

Destroyed—No.

I refuse to lose the idealism I had as I celebrate these bittersweet anniversaries of my life. I will choose to remember the sparkle and the energy of the first day, the excitement (and niavete!) at the start, and the resulting life adventure that followed. Grieving the loss of something big doesn’t have to destroy the anniversary. 

Not if we choose not to let it. (But that doesn't mean there aren't tears, eh?)

What do you choose?

What does one do when one has lost everything?

I had a chance recently to visit with some folks who have been through a lot. In late fall 2008, their house had burnt down. To the ground. Total loss.

These are people in their senior years, and had a lifetime of memories in that household. They’ve travelled much with his business and collected beautiful wall hangings, carpets, and artwork from various places around the world. She is a woman who loves history and knowledge…she could tell the story of each piece, and often of the artisan who crafted it, in detail. They love knowledge, learning and history…and had the books of a lifetime in the library of that house. They love family, roots, geneologies…and had objects from previous generations to remember loved ones from times past (and had the story to go along with each item).

And then, one day, while they weren’t home, it went up in flames. Very little could be salvaged. They were homeless…and had lost so much that had so much meaning.

Amongst the conversation of the evening, she told me of an unforgettable experience.  She was standing in the charred remains of what had been their library…sodden, now frozen charred remains of books, some still on the shelves, some knocked over on the ground. Her heart was numb, full and empty at the same time. She was beaten, forlorn, and utterly overwhelmed with a sense of loss.

She looked up to the sky (the ceiling had collapsed and the room was open to the elements) and noticed a maple leaf falling from the neighbor’s overhanging tree. The breeze captured a leaf…perfectly symmetrical, with the bright oranges, reds, and yellows that only a Canadian maple leaf can have. And the leaf gently, gracefully floated back and forth to land in the middle of the charred library, near where she stood.

She was captured by it’s beauty, made starker by the blackness all around. As she was telling the story of this maple leaf in the library, her voice got stronger, more animated. She said something like, “My heart was so full of so much at that moment. So much. I wish I had been a poet. I wish I was an artist, because somehow I wanted to capture that incredibly enormity of all that I was feeling in that moment. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t have words for all that was happening.” That moment of the maple leaf falling into the blackness of her destroyed home was something she will never forget.

There is something to that, I think. How, in moments of despair, the small act of kindness of a friend, or a snapshot of beauty stands out in stark contrast to the misery of the situation. How the deepest of pits is suddenly illuminated with light for a brief moment. What was particularly striking in this story, is that the beauty of that maple leaf occurred because it was itself dying and being released by the maple as the days were colder.

It was a difficult year of negotiating with the insurance company, and making millions of choices as the house was rebuilt and restocked. A time of living in strange surroundings for months as rebuilding was taking place, only to move back to a new house that while beautiful, was not the familiar house from before. 

But she hasn’t forgotten the maple leaf. And the unwritten poem of the power of that moment stays with her.

Totensonntag was a part of my childhood. The church of my childhood marked “Totensonntag” (toe-ten-zon-tahg) on the last Sunday of the church calendar year—the first Sunday of the church calendar year being the first Sunday of Advent—four Sundays before Christmas. So Totensonntag (directly translated from the German—“Dead Sunday”) was generally in late November.

Totensonntag was a chance for those in the church community to remember those who had died…funerals that had occurred in the last year were written down in the weekly bulletin, families who wanted to remember loved ones from years past would put a plant at the front of the church in memory, and we would sing a sad slow song in a minor key…I’m assuming it was about death, but I wouldn’t know for sure…the son was in German, a language I didn’t understand. It was a public formal way to remember those who were no longer among us, and a chance to officially acknowledge the ongoing grief of those in the congregation.

It’s been a long time since I attended a Totensonntag service…but I was speaking to someone who was going to be attending “The Longest Night” service at her church yesterday. December 21 is the winter solstice, making it the day when there is the most amount of darkness…a fitting time to acknowledge the darkness in our own lives. Other places have services called “Blue Christmas” or “Good Mourning” services—the holidays are a poignant time when we remember those who are departed and won’t be a part of the Christmas traditions in the way that was familiar and meaningful

It's a struggle for many at this time of year, as one feels the pressure to be happy and cheerful, and enjoying the season. Grandma may not be around…and her special cookies and her tinkling laugh won’t be at the family gathering. A spouse isn’t present to wrap the gifts together in a made hilarious and late rush on Christmas Eve, or at the other end of the table to carve the turkey.

For many, there is mourning, though not over a death…children are alienated, and won’t come for Christmas; a spouse has been unfaithful, and while the events on the surface appear unchanged, there is terror hidden in his eyes, as he wonders if this is the last Christmas; mom scrambles to keep some of the traditions the same even though dad now lives in another house, and there isn’t enough time, money or help to do things the usual way.

The challenge for those who mourn a loss this season is to hold the complexities of life, to feel the tear of loss even as there is opportunities to embrace something new; to laugh at a child’s antics and allow that laugh to dissolve into tears with remembering; to be melancholy and still find a way to get to the party, even if one doesn’t stay as long; to thoroughly enjoy an evening without feeling guilty or disloyal to the loss; to find a way to negotiate through a painful family gathering, being thoughtful in one’s own conduct to protect oneself from the worst of the pain.

I was at a friend’s house last night, where a history buff showed me a video. It is hauntingly beautiful, as the mournful tone of the music, the incredible artistry creating beautiful images appear before our eyes, transforming moments of joy into brutal pain and then back into a peaceful scene, and back into times of horror. The story told is that of Ukraine during the World War II, some of it celebratory and victorious, much of it agonizingly painful. It seemed fitting that he showed it to me yesterday, the day of darkness…I was struck by the tears of the observers as the images touched their soul.

 

 

It is interesting to me that we are so captivated by what is essentially a capitalistic discourse of grieving.  Listen to the terms we use.  We should finish unfinished business. We need to seek closure.  We ought to withdraw emotional energy from the one who has died in order to invest it into other relationships.  What I would say in response to all of this is that business may be finished but relationships rarely are.  And we usually don't seek closure.  Closure is for bank accounts, not for love accounts. Those remain open.
Love is not like money.  It is not available in limited supply.  It is potentially boundless, so the more open we remain to continuing loving relationships with those who are not physcially present, the more love we have available to give to contemporary relationships with those who are living.  The notion of withdrawing energy as if it were just so much emotional capital that can be reallocated to another higher-interest-bearing account strikes me as bizarre.

Neimeyer as quoted in Their Finest Hour by Kottler and Carlson

Today looked for many like an ordinary day.  I too, looked like I was having an ordinary day…saw clients, made phone calls, dealt with issues, looked after administrative chores at work, and household chores at home.

But it only looked ordinary.  It didn’t feel ordinary.  For weeks, there was an impending sense of waiting for the day, knowing it was coming.

It was the anniversary.

The anniversary of the death of dear and loved family members who died suddenly and tragically on this day years ago.

Amazing how things can look normal, and so much can seem like a regular day, even when today is not at all like other days—for me.  Many days now, the fullness of life covers over the gaping hole and I, after all these years, don’t even think about the loss.  There were months years ago where I couldn’t imagine grief being a daily and ever present mantle of heaviness.  Life has gone on, I can smile and laugh without feeling guilty. I can remember the times before with fondness, and talk about those days without bursting into tears.

But today is a day when the hollow ache is ripped open fresh again and it seems like yesterday that I heard the dreaded news.  I am reminded of the emptiness in a "get hit by a Mac truck" sort of way.  Leaning over the grave and hugging the ground seems like a pathetic way to connect with the love that was lost on that day—pathetic, but I wouldn’t miss being there today for anything.  It is a day I dread, but a day I wouldn’t miss, can’t miss, won’t stop acknowledging.

As I sit by the grave and weep, I sit in the silence and remember.  I go through the "what ifs", and spend time wishing things were different.  A time of restless contemplation.  I notice the ants crawling over my feet and pant legs and I idly am reminded that there is life.  The nearby roar of the train tells me that life keeps moving forward, and as much as life stops at the grave, it goes on too.

Tomorrow is a new day, and the burden of the anniversary will be lifted.  But the memory of my loved ones is not forgotten:  there are the wind chimes in my kitchen, statues in my living room, the beach glass in another room—all of which serve as symbols of the lives that were lived, and they comfort me.  Gone but not forgotten. And life goes on.