Topic: Grief

One of the things I have always loved doing is walking knee deep in orange and yellow colored leaves…all the different shades of color that so vibrantly color the path in front of me can almost take my breath away.

However, as beautiful as they are, it’s hard for me to truly enjoy the beauty of these leaves. Because while they themselves are incredible…for me they signify that the bitter cold of winter is near. It takes deliberate effort for me to enjoy autumn in itself for what it is…the slowly changing color of leaves from greens to infinitely variable hues of yellow, orange and red; the crisp air; the occasional hint of smoke from a backyard wiener or marshmallow roast; the sounds of crunching underfoot. I have hard time appreciating all this for itself…because it forecasts the coming of winter…a season that finds my shoulders perpetually up by my ears bracing against the cold wintry blasts of freezing air. I was on a run this morning in amongst the emerging fall beauty:


As I ran through the fall forest, I found myself reflecting on how we can avoid enjoying “the moment” fearing what we know comes next. We find ourselves unable to find pleasure in the now, because we are already in the dreading/grieving of what we know is coming:

• The last year of a child’s high school, knowing they launch into being away at college the following year
  
• Special times with loved ones in the hospital on a palliative care unit during the last days and hours of life
  
• The last weeks in a beloved house/city before the “big move”
  

No magic answers here…just an understanding between us of the tension of trying to experience present joy when that joy's very presence is a foreshadow of more difficult/lonely times ahead.

New York was the highlight of my 10 day trip to the Eastern Seaboard this spring. 9/11 and Ground Zero were never very far from discussion it seemed as we chatted with tour guides and local New Yorkers. It takes very little to get a New Yorker to talk about where they were on that day, how far they had to walk to get to safety, and how worried they were about friends who worked in the World Trade Center. Our tour guide from Kansas was scheduled to stay at the Trade Center Marriott hotel on September 15th…she is aware of how close she came to being in the middle of a tragedy. We had lunch at this fabulous diner joint just across the street from the rebuilding site…it’s a bustling place now, but there were years where the owner struggled to keep it afloat as the Ground Zero stopped being a place of commerce for a long time. The experience of 9/11 seems close at all times in the city of New York.

I remember that day in Winnipeg as well. I was working at Misericordia Care Center at the time. I was a few minutes late for work, so I heard the headlines on the CBC news right at 8:00…just as I was turning off Stafford onto Academy. A plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I’m not sure if the newscaster said it, or if somehow in my mind, I just assumed that it must be a small private plan where the pilot had become disoriented in the “Big Apple” and panicked. I parked the car and went to the cafeteria for breakfast, and my co-worker said a plane had just hit the second tower…I responded, “Yes, I heard that on the news.” And Maureen said, “No, you don’t understand. Another plane, a second one, hit the other building.” It suddenly became apparent this was no accident. I came back from breakfast, and went onto the unit…and the television was playing in the corner. A plane had crashed into the Pentagon. I went off to do something with a resident, and when I came back something else had happened…I tore myself away from the television to go do my job for a few minutes…everytime I returned throughout the morning, it seemed, another tragedy occurred…another plane crashed, a building collapsed. It got so that I didn’t want to leave the television, because to leave and come back meant something yet again completely horrible would have happened. It seemed odd to be prescribing wheelchairs, working on ambulation with a resident, and figuring out safe swallowing for another, when I didn’t know, when the world didn’t know, what was going to be crashed next, when or if it would stop, and what our world would look like by the end of the day. There was a sense that the world would change…and would never be the same. I stopped feeling safe, and suddenly it seemed we were all a whole lot more vulnerable than any of us had realized.

I’ve previously blogged about visiting the World Trade Center site. The part of the trip that I find myself going back to again and again in my experience is when I spent an hour in St. Paul’s chapel. With a haunting requiem being sung in the center area, I looked at the displays describing the incredible healing work that was provided to rescue workers who were immersed in unspeakable horrors…a little corner of “real” that was warm and human and compassionate, in stark contrast to the very “real” devastation where that they spent their day. Now, the situation is very different. I took this picture from an observation area at the site in March of this year: Just around the corner from the observation deck, there is a memorial dedicated to the employees of American Express who were killed. It is a pool where the 11 victims’ names are enscribed along with adjectives describing their character as decided by their families. What’s moving is that silently and quietly, drops of water fall into the stillness of the water in the pool, with gentle ripples. The drips represent the tears that are and will be shed over their loss and the loss of others.
There are no signs asking for quiet, or for people to speak in hushed tones that I remember.

It wasn’t necessary.

I was travelling with a group of rambunctious teenagers, and instinctively they moved slowly in silence around the memorial. In the middle of downtown Manhatten, there was this quiet chapel like environment honoring those that have fallen.

As the water rippled with the tears of the display, my own eyes were filled with tears of my own…for those that had lost their lives, for the many family members and friends whose lives had enormous holes that would now be filled with grief, for the way we all have been affected by this grief and by others, for how the deep sadness of being permanently separated from a loved one changed so many lives that day.

It was a day thinkin’ about grief yesterday…it was Jack Layton’s funeral, and the TV was on as I was going about my day. I usually prefer music when I’m around the house, but it was compelling watching the outpouring of grief for Mr. Layton, and to watch the drama as his friends and family had the public eye on them as they attended the processional and funeral for their loved one.

Then, as I sat down for supper, I happened to flip onto a rerun of Oprah that had been recorded from earlier this week. It was on “life changing moments” from the show over the last 25 years. She played a clip from years ago of a woman quite stuck in her grief after the murder of her 18 year old daughter…the woman had every intention of killing herself on return home from the show, as the grief was unbearable.

Dr. Phil challenged her on her outlook:

 When Dr. Phil asked Jo Ann if her daughter would want her to hurt like this, Jo Ann said that her daughter would actually be angry at her for her behavior. "So it wouldn't be a betrayal," Dr. Phil told her. "Maybe the betrayal is focusing on the day of her death, rather than celebrating the event of her life. She lived for 18 vibrant and wonderful years, and you focus on the day she died." Jo Ann responded by saying, "I never thought of it that way."

Jo Ann went home and moved forward with her life, still thinking of and being sad for her daughter, but also “starting living” as her other daughter put it.

Moments later on the same show, the acclaimed author Toni Morrison was interviewed. Slate, her son, passed away last December. Her heart aches forever. “I expect to be sad the rest of my life…and I’m not unhappy about that. It’s seems that if I were looking for closure and some way to move on, that’s a insult to him. I know how to do my work, I do a lot of work…[but] I don’t expect that memory to go anywhere, I don’t even want it to…I can remember it.”

Sort of an interesting thought to me as I reflected back on Olivia Chow’s comments in the video shown at the funeral today of her husband:

Some people say to me that Jack’s voice is gone, I’m so sad. I’m sad. We’re sad. But let us not look behind us, let us look forward, look at what we can accomplish together to make sure that Jack’s voice is not silenced. I think that is a good way to celebrate his life.

Then she is quiet, and as the camera continue to roll, her eyes tear, and her hand comes to her face, as she weeps…clearly not only looking forward…but vividly remembering her soul mate that is gone. It seems that grief recovery is this paradoxical condition of both 1) remembering and honoring the sadness with acknowledging its inevitable lingering presence and 2) incorporating that loss in a life that embraces the hope of a future and living a life where loss doesn’t stop life, but becomes a part of the fabric of that life. I expect that as Olivia Chow goes back to Parliament, and continues to work on the future that she and her husband have spent years passionately working for—I expect she will be sad for the rest of her life when she thinks on the loss of Jack Layton…and I hope, like Toni Morrison, she’s not unhappy about that.

I can see me pulling through, find out I'm someone who

Is moving on and letting go, picking up the pieces on the road to healing

Wynonna Judd

I've had hearbreak in my life...times when I thought that the pain might have me go mad.  Literally.  If not mad, then I might die...or perhaps it was more that I just hoped to die...to escape the pain, to not have to live with the heartache.  It was brutally hard to "hold the space for pain and discomfort" of acute grief.

That line:  "hold the space for pain and discomfort" comes from here:

“Faith communities perceive it as a unwillingness to be in the dark, to feel pain…I would argue that it’s not always an unwillingness, it’s sometimes it’s the inability… 'I don’t know how…I physically, spiritually, emotionally, physiologically don’t know how to sit in that.' ”

from the video Brene Brown, Shame and Vulnerability

I remember powerful experiences of people being willing to sit in the space of darkness of pain and discomfort with me. 

• I remember holding vigil for loved ones in hospital…an acquaintance I barely knew stopped by to visit us. Many people stopped by to visit us, to offer words of comfort and courage, to attempt to cheer us up, to bring food, to pray—all of them appreciated, but his are the only words I distinctly remember many years later. He said little, stood around fairly quietly, and then mumbled… “I hate this shitty place”, adding a few months earlier, he had also stood death vigil for a loved one on the very ward. His words spoke understanding…he sat with us for a few minutes in the dark. 
  
• I remember years later, as another heartbreak loomed near…the pain and despair threatened to overwhelm. Special neighbors created space and held my darkness…after the tribe was tucked in and sleeping for the night, I’d walk down the street and settle myself on their couch…folding myself in half on their couch to weep..head in my hands, hands on my lap. I would sob and sob while she would have her hand on my back, and he, his hand on my knee. After I was all cried out, I would make my way back to my house to fall into bed, able to crash into an exhausted sleep. For several weeks, several times per week, I would knock on their door, and they would open it, and take their place on the couch with space in between for me, ready to hold the pain. Little was said…little needed to be said, little could be said. 
  

I’ve never forgotten these. They was priceless then. I learned much from these moments, that I carry still. These companions-in-pain were also my teachers...they taught me how to sit in the space of pain, and eventually, how to be with others in the dark.

 

“When my kids are struggling, I'm not hardwired to sit in the dark, and sit with them. I’m hardwired to flip on the lights…so we start teaching compassion, and teaching the ability to hold space for pain and discomfort by sitting with our kids in the dark”

from the video

Holding space for pain…a hard task that requires vulnerability, but allows for being fully alive…for the heart that has space for pain, also has space for joy. The heart that can hold grief, can also hold vitality and love and connection with others.

Painful but worthwhile learning.

Compassion is knowing your darkness well enough that you can sit in the dark with others.

Pema Chodron

I thought faith would say, "I'll take away the pain and discomfort", but what it ended up saying is, "I'll sit with you in it". And I never thought until I found it, that it would be enough--but it's perfect. You know, I don't feel alone in it anymore.

Brene Brown

Science has now proven that which those with broken hearts have always known...love hurts. 

Seriously, it really hurts.  A body aches in pain when a loved one goes away for good.  Not just a perception, a reality.

Watch:

Love Hurts, But Break-Ups Cause Real Pain by NTDTV

There's something about a bright yellow rubber duck that makes me smile. And it's not only me, either.  Rubber duckies are known the world over for creating grins.

It may have started for many of us as small children, with getting to know one of our television friends, Ernie. I had a toddler crush on that puppet, and would swoon on him when he would bring out that rubber duckie when in that tub…that song still makes me smile when I hear Ernie sing it.

Anyways…so these happy Ernie moments of my toddlerhood where he is thoroughly enjoying his rubber duckie has led to general rubber duckie enjoyment in my life. I’m not the only one…watch the video…rubber duckies are loved by many.

And rubber duckies aren’t just for kids…grown ups like them too…saw this car in the parking lot one day. Fun, huh?

So, this little interest I have in rubber duckies goes waaaaay back, and when I first started the counselling practice, I received a small rubber duckie as a gift to put in a table top fountain I had at the time. When I remodeled several years ago, the fountain disappeared, as did the duckie.

A few weeks ago, I found that ol'lil rubber duckie as I was sorting through some boxes. I sat him in the fountain in the waiting room cuz it just seemed like he might fit there. Melanie enjoyed the reactions of children of all ages discovering the duck over the next week or two.

For many, it’s quite stressful to visit a counsellor. People come in to talk about some of the most distressing and difficult aspects of their lives, daring to vulnerably explore matters that are often of an extremely personal nature that don’t get discussed elsewhere. So the waiting room can be a time of some tense anxiety. In light of that, we have worked to have our waiting room be a restful, peaceful place with soft music, a bulletin board with interesting quotes, and a trickling fountain…to calm the soul. 

And, oh yeah, now we have a rubber duckie in the fountain.

It’s a bit of “funny” in a serious place…and has helped a few people find a smile when they needed one.

I’m rather a fan of “rubber duckie moments” during times of very difficult turmoil:

• I recall family friends who were grieving the death of the family patriarch. The family had gathered from all over to comfort each other and mourn the initial shock; then hunkered down and planned the funeral. One evening in the middle of the time between the death and funeral, all the family gathered at a restaurant for some good grub and fun reminiscing, and then all went to a comedy. They laughed and enjoyed life for one evening as a little break in the intensity of the grieving. It was a rubber duckie moment. The next day were final funeral preparations, and a viewing service.
• I remember a single mom friend of mine who gave encouragement to other new single moms to find (or create) laughter and silliness amongst the stress of adjustment, the crazy busy-ness of the tasks, and the stress of a stretched budget. She was adamant that at the most desperate and difficult times, finding a way to remember to laugh, even if for a moment, could change the way the difficult stuff would be perceived. She and her kids would set the timer and see how much cleaning they could get done in 10 minutes…they’d race around at break neck speed, scrambling to see if they could make a new record. Or, when the kids were crying and hungry, and she was at the breaking point during the difficult hour between arriving home from work and getting supper on the table, she would throw spaghetti on the ceiling to see if it would stick as a sign of “doneness”. And the spell of gloom would be broken by this rubber duckie moment.

I get that life can be heavy and serious…and trying to minimize that or pretend otherwise can feel trite and be a form of denial. I’m not talking about ignoring the pain or imagining it away. I’m suggesting that the intensity of grief, or the pit of depression can be slightly more bearable when there is an authentic belly laugh in the middle of it. I recall in the middle of a family tragedy at the hospital, how the resident had his fly open—nothing obscene, just obvious enough to be quite funny. A moment of silliness in an otherwise black landscape…it brought a tiny measure of temporary relief to the tough stuff that would become a heavy part of a sad reality in our lives for a long time to come.

So, the rubber duckie in our waiting room fountain is a tiny silly presence in the heaviness, bearing witness to a tiny joy--to be a tiny counterbalance to the weight of the hearts and souls of those in the waiting room. There will be some that will need a tiny focus of light in a dark time…something to bring a half smile to an otherwise desolate expression for a moment. To be reminded that life is bigger than tragedy, and a tiny bit of comic relief can do any soul good...

...even if your name isn’t Ernie. ;)

I like the hope that today brings, even though I don't so much like today for what it is.

Let me explain.  I love sunshine.  It's always been important for me to have big bright windows in my home.  No heavy curtains for me...let the sun shine in!

I love going for walks in the sunshine, hanging out in a backyard on a sunny day. Being a mental health professional, I understand the value of light on our bodies…how we actually feel better when we’ve been exposed to sunshine. It’s a physiological thing, and an emotional/psychological thing.

So winters are hard…the cold is one thing, but the darkness is a whole ‘nother ball of wax. I wake up in the dark to go to work, and it’s still not bright when I leave for work. Often it’s already dusk before I leave work…and I’ve missed the whole day of sunshine if I didn’t have to run between the university and the therapy office at some point in the day. 

And then life gets to feeling kinda dark.

Today is the day when there is the least sunshine of any day in the year. I think of it as the So-Low-That-Down-Is-Up day. And so I look forward to today, because tomorrow is a day with more sunshine, more light, more brightness. And the day after that is more, and the day after that is yet more. And so on.

For me, as hard as the really rough times of my life have been, these have also been times when I can start to have some hope…cuz once the bottom has fallen out, there really is no place but up. Being on the bottom of the pit means there no farther to fall…while it’s terrible to be at the bottom of the pit, there’s a small comfort in knowing that it won’t get worse. I remember at one critical moment of my life thinking, “As rough as the next 6 months will be, they will be better than the last 6 months”.

• When a spouse, after months of sitting on the fence in the relationship, makes a determined and clear action that says, “I’m not coming back”
• When a loved one, after months of debilitating illness and significant pain, passes away
• When after years of financial struggle of trying to make a business work, the end is clear. It’s over. The business is done. Bankruptcy is now.
  

All of these are brutally hard. They are all an irreversible “bottom”. Yuck. Very painful. But they signify an end to what can seem like an interminable time of difficulty. The day after these sorts of life experiences don’t feel any better, neither the next week. But the worst has happened. Tomorrow will be one day when it won't be worse than today.

So, today, I find comfort in that we hit the bottom and turn the corner on sunshine…for the next six months, each day will be incrementally longer than the last. The only change that will be perceptible tomorrow is my inward knowledge that it is longer…I won’t actually be able to feel the difference during the day. However, the days will turn into weeks, and soon I will be able to feel that the evening’s daylight is noticeably longer. 

The hope of turning a corner…today I’m feeling it.

The answer to, "I have no idea how I am going to get through this" is: You allow yourself to sob, to heave, to feel as if your heart has a boulder crashing through it.  You sit with your father.  You listen to his sorrow.  YOu get help from your friends.  And you notice that at the end of every day you are still alive.  And you notice that when you don't use food [or shopping, or alcohol, or work, or gambling] to shut yourself down, to leave your body, you actually feel more alive.  That feeling anything, even grief, is different from what you thought it would be.  That when you don't leave yourself, a different life is lived.  One that includes vulnerability and tenderness and fragility and changes the landscape--makes it verdant, wider, breathtaking--of life as you know it.