Grief & Closure - Losing a Loved One

Today, I am publishing a piece I originally posted in April 2011 about healing the grief around the loss of a loved one. This weekend marks the four-year anniversary of my mom's transition, and this piece was written during a time when my father and I were going through some things she had stored away.  Edited since its original posting, its message still hold true for anyone experiencing grief around the loss of a loved one, and/or a miscarriage.

I dedicate this piece to a few friends who recently have lost a parent, and who currently are in the process of losing a parent.  My heart knows your grief, and the love you held/hold for your loved one.  May you find comfort in knowing you are not alone in your grief.

Yesterday during a Sunday visit with my dad, we looked through things he’d recently sorted of my mom’s stuff. He and I perused all the remaining closets, rooms, cabinets and shelves still left unchecked when in one closet I found a pillow case stuffed with something. It was my Baby Tender Love doll from my preschool-aged childhood. Her hair was matted, badly suffering cowlicks. She still wore a little blue-print onesie my mother had made for her. Other than a rip in the bottom hem and having a bad hair day, the little gal was in pretty good shape.

After I came home, I pulled Baby Tender Love out for a visit and the childhood memories came flooding back. We lived in an old dilapidated rental house on Redhill-Maxwell. As a child it seemed huge, though during a return visit as a teenager I recalled how small the rooms and yard really were. I remember playing with my dolls while sitting on the floor in the bedroom I shared with my little brother, including my Barbie, PJ and Ken dolls for which Mom also made very fashionable clothes. All those dolls and outfits were long ago pitched, though I did find my Barbie naked on a shelf. Evidently she'd been a nudist the last few decades.

As I remembered these childhood memories, I hugged Baby Tender Love close to me as if she were my baby again. The rush of memories suddenly reeled me back in time to April 1996, when I lost my own baby at eleven weeks, and with it, the dream of being a mother. Grief struck out of nowhere and tears flowed for the little baby girl I knew I carried, "Peanut." With my unborn child, there was no farewell; no funeral service or closure that signified she was gone; no opportunity to say goodbye after our short-lived relationship was over. There was only hemorrhaging through the night, labor pains and cramps as my body gave premature birth to the fetus. There was fear, uncertainty, and disconnect with the reality that I was losing my baby. The next morning was the doctor visit, outpatient surgery for a DNC, and then home to carry on in life as if none of it had ever happened, as if I'd awakened from a bad dream. I dealt with the grief off and on for several years afterward, and I truly felt peace around it, despite remembering my baby every December, the month Peanut would've been born had she gone full-term. Every year, I remember the lost dream of being a mother to what would today be a beautiful fourteen-year-old daughter.

 

 In hindsight, I realize that I never experienced closure around her loss.

 

Before mom passed, I hated funerals, and never felt comfortable being in the same room as a dead body. Yet, I recognized the event for what it was – closure for those who loved the one lost. After seven plus years of spiritual development, I understood that life as we know it in human form is simply energy transitioning into spiritual form. I initially resented the visitation, because I was tired, grieving and I didn't want to meet and greet others. Then I realized they too needed closure around the passing of a friend, neighbor, relative, coworker and acquaintance.

 

After it was said and done, I was grateful for the visitation. I learned how much Mom touched the lives of so many, and how they loved and appreciated her. It was such a gift. As for my mom’s body being on display, her funeral was the first I’d been to since stepping into my spiritual journey, and it no longer felt uncomfortable or awkward to be there. I felt gratitude for the opportunity to have been present with my mom upon her death. I was grateful for the funeral that allowed my family to have closure as we prepared to return her to Mother Earth.

 

As I held my Baby Tender Love, I strangely felt a connection I never felt with the child I lost. A physical connection that tapped right into the grief left unfinished. A connection to what it might have felt like, if only briefly, to hold my baby for the first time. I connected with that grief and felt a greater sense of closure. I was able to energetically hold my unborn baby to say goodbye as I embraced the Baby Tender Love I loved so dearly as a child.

Grief is a process, ongoing and in many phases. Rushing grief is unproductive; denying grief only feeds its strength into volcanic releases. I've dealt with the loss of my unborn baby, and now this grief feels complete.

Thank you Mom for hanging on to Baby Tender Love for me. And thank you Baby Tender Love for allowing me to say the goodbye I never had the chance to say fifteen years ago.

In Silence with the Monks

The first five months of this year was noisy. The hubbub of supporting my dad during the selling and closing of the home place. The cacophony of planning, coordinating, organizing and marketing an estate sale, finding my own place, and moving personal belongings strewn between my dad's and a storage unit. The din of a hectic work schedule demanding 100% of everything I had during February and March. The clamor of moving my dad into my place, then six weeks later into the Carmel Home. The racket of unpacking, sorting, de-cluttering, figuring out what goes where, what gets donated, and how to make it all fit.

When it was all said and done, I needed a break.

 

With intuitive guidance, and God knowing what I needed before I did, I scheduled back in January a silent retreat at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Bardstown, KY for Memorial Day weekend. By the end of May, I needed time away from what had been my life the past five months. Every part of me knew I needed it mentally, emotionally, spiritually, even physically. I was exhausted in every way.

Ahhhhhh, the quiet, the peacefulness, the beautiful crisp air and sunshine, and the silence. The silence was the best. I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me. I cut myself off from the world, my laptop, and my cell phone. Armed with a journal and a book called the “Power of Patience,” I temporarily escaped my responsibilities to spend a long weekend with the monks to figure out the “what next” in my life.

Gone was the noise of my to-do list. Gone was the phones ringing at work, people asking me to be here or there. Gone was the sounds of my Egoic Self yammering about what I should be doing, could be doing, or had to do still. My mind, body and spirit listened to the sounds of countless song birds singing their joy. I listened to the wind blowing through the tulip poplars, catalpas and majestic oaks. I tuned in to the whirring and buzzing of insects busy being bugs.

 

And I heard my own inner voice again.

In the three days and four nights of silence,

• My Egoic Self confessed and expressed its grief around saying farewell to my childhood home, and that physical connection to my mom.
• My Soul reaffirmed my love for my father, and my devotion and commitment of support to him for the balance of his life.
• My Inner Child spoke up about her insecurities around a relationship, and communed with Spirit for healing. 
• My Spirit Guides reminded me of how I thrived through all the countless changes the last four years of my life, and
• My Higher Consciousness offered me clarity around my writing, and the infinite possibilities available to paint the blank canvas before me as I moved into the next leg of my journey.

 

In the silence, I relaxed my mind, my body, and my spirit. 

I rejuvenated my energy and Higher connection.

I reclaimed my personal and spiritual power, and my life.

I had no idea how depleted I was until I went on this silent weekend retreat. This realization deepened within my awareness the importance of taking time to center amid life's chaos. I gave in to the illusion that I had to go, go, go to get it all done. I gave over myself in order to serve others, which ultimately led to my breaking down physically and emotionally before it was all said and done. How is that being helpful to my father, to the people I serve at work, or to myself?

The most important A-HA was I gave up on God to see me through the storm of changes. I let go of centering meditations and daily prayers with excuses of exhaustion and no time. When I could have been looking to God Within for comfort, support and love, I looked outside of myself to my to-do lists, comfort food, whining and complaining, and acting the martyr for the burdens I had upon me. BLEH!!

God is my Shepherd within, and I wandered astray from my guiding support into the jaws of the Wolf, that Egoic Self that relishes in the drama, the misery, and the victimization.

In the sounds of silence, I heard my guiding Shepherd,

and returned to my Higher Self, restored.

The Dulcimer and A Wild Hair

As Mother's Day approaches, I'm feeling less burdened with sadness, and much more at peace around mom's absence. Previously, my heart ached as I saw Mom's Day cards in the store, ads for gifts, and all the possibilities of how to celebrate mom. A recent estate sale of my mom's stuff and that entire process helped “wring” a good chunk of the grief out of me, ahem, at least for a while. No doubt it will rear its head again down the road. I've come to be okay with that because it keeps me connected with her, with her memory.

So for now, I enjoy the grief-free journey when it comes to my mom. This Mother's Day, inspiration to honor her rather than mourn and miss her struck me. I find the irony amusing, and that I'm actually following through with it joyously nuts!

Many years ago, my mom fell in love with the sound of the dulcimer and decided she'd wanted to learn out to play one. So dad had a co-worker make a dulcimer as a birthday gift for my mom.  Included were playing instructions, as well as an audio tape to help the student learn how to play it. I believe my mom actually “fiddled” (yes, pun fully intended here!) with the dulcimer a handful of times, but according to dad, she never learned how to play it. Over the last several years, the dulcimer has sat up in a closet of my brother's old room collecting dust.

Upon clearing out the clutter of my mom's things, my dad and I discussed what to do with the dulcimer. I called local musician and string instrument teacher, Randy Lanham, to ask if he was interested in buying it for teaching, or if he knew anyone who was interested in owning one. Unfortunately, he didn't, suggesting a music shop. Dad decided we'd hang onto it and sell it in the estate auction when it's time for him to move out of the house. So once again, it sat in the closet on the shelf collecting a new layer of dust.

Then last weekend, I stumbled across a newspaper magazine insert in Sunday's newspaper featuring the summer schedule of activities at Kentucky's Land Between the Lakes (LBL). While casually perusing it, I noticed a class being offered: Beginning Mountain Dulcimer, Saturday, May 12 at The Homeplace at LBL.  The class caught my attention. I've never been interested in the dulcimer, and I've never played a string instrument in my life, unless you count a piano because well, it has strings attached to the keys.  I suddenly felt mom's encouragement to take the class. Why not? the familiar voice reasoned. I felt as if she wanted to live vicariously through me.  So, I decided then and there, why not? I'll do it.  I took the magazine insert to work with me the next day so I could make the call for more information.

Monday came and I started to think, this is crazy! Maybe they expect people with a little experience in this class; can someone really learn that easily? So I called. No, previous experience is not required. Yes, all the basics, including explaining the strings on it will be covered. Yes, you will be able to play several tunes on your dulcimer before the end of the 5-6 hour class. Well, hmm, okay then, sign me up! And so they did.

I giggle at myself for grabbing this wild hair to learn the dulcimer; but I'm excited about it. First of all, it's been a long time since I've grabbed a wild hair; I'm notorious among for doing so, and I like feeling some of the “fearlessly adventurous Carolyn” coming back after a three year withdrawal. Second, this adventure takes me out of town, if only for the day and into a beautiful part of Kentucky's scenery. Third, I'm doing it for mom; call it a Mother's Day gift if you will. I know she'd get a huge kick out of my taking the class.  I sense it was her spiritual kick that got me into it!

Tomorrow, early Saturday morning, off I shall go to LBL to learn how to play a dulcimer. A couple of people inform it it is suppose to be easy to learn, which is optimistic news for me! I have no expectations around the outcome of my ability to play, much less play well. I see this opportunity to spend the day with my mom via the dulcimer, an instrument which she loved. I have no doubt she will be around watching and enjoying the sweet music it and all the other beginners make.

Stay tuned (again, pun so totally intended) to hear the rest of the story! Um, and maybe a song!

Sharing My Mom

I know it's been a while since my last post.  Here's why!

A month after my mom died, I received marching orders from Pop to clear her things. At the time, this meant to both of us her clothes and personal belongings. And so I did, and believed we'd cleared her things.

Fast forward to the beginning of this year and my “in your face” revelation we'd not even scratched the surface of “clearing” her things. Closets full of floral arrangements, luggage, prints, Santa Claus and snowman collectibles, chotzies and other things. Shelves filled with plastic bins of sewing threads, tools, fabrics, craft supplies for crocheting, cross-stitching, ceramic painting, Christmas ornaments. Walls covered in beautiful decorative wreaths she designed herself. Plastic bins filled with grapes, silk flowers, and floral arranging materials, more fabric, and seashells. Department 56 houses and every accessory imaginable on shelves. Cabinets filled with votive holders, potpourri, and home décor items. Canning jars, freezer containers, lids, canning pots and cookers and tools, oh my! I chuckled at my and my dad's naivete in believing we'd “taken care of all her belongings” after her transition!

I'm not sure Dad is completely ready to sell their place yet, but when he is, I realized I didn't all these beautiful things of my mom's to be insensitively handled in an Estate Auction. These things, her belongings, she gave great care and concern before purchasing; much time, energy and consideration was invested by mom before before buying something. I knew mom wouldn't want these beautiful, high-end things (she had some excellent taste) to collect dust, sit hidden in closets, and be randomly thrown into a box to be sold at a chaotic Estate Auction. I knew Dad wouldn't get a fair price on these things this way, so I decided needed to do right by mom and hold an Estate sale.

My dad calls my mom a “collector.” My brother calls her an “organized hoarder.” I believe my mom had ambitious dreams of being Martha Stewart. Mom had big plans for her time in retirement but cancer stole that time from her. Mom didn't collect just to have it; she collected because these things touched her soul, resonated with a poor little girl who admired from afar pretty things. She also had big plans to decorate the house in great style. Mom did collect Dickens and New England villages, Santas and snowmen. And my brother was right; she was very organized. My dad shook his head repeatedly in disbelief at all I pulled out for the Estate Sale.

You think you know someone, but go through their belongings, and you get to know someone a little deeper. I knew mom loved shopping, but only until I begin organizing her things for the sale did I realize how big her dreams were, and what incredible tastes she had. In hindsight, I realize I took for granted her excitement about her plans and many interests. Despite the fact we talked every single day by phone for several years, I didn't understand this facet of her. What didn't I know?

I didn't know she practiced crocheting or she was teaching herself. I didn't know she was nostalgic as I perused newspapers and magazines saved about Hurricane Betsy that we were in, or Mardi Gras she attended in 1965, or when Elvis, JFK, and Reagan died, the flood of Daviess County in 1997, the tornado that hit Owensboro, or 9/11 happened. I found a tub full of my baby clothes, including the onesies, little dresses I wore as a toddler and even into the first few years of elementary school, and the baby clothing hangers. I didn't know mom had done so much floral work, twenty arrangements in all not counting the wreaths.

Mom was poor growing up and when she had the money in later years, she spent it on nice things she enjoyed. She loved shopping for it, having it, and displaying it. Mom loved to learn new things, a trait of hers which I take after, and she had a creative side that was expressed in her home decorating, the holidays, and her flower gardens.

As I pulled things out, organized, and priced items over a two month period, I experienced another level of grief. I ached for her, so I could enjoy those things with her. Everything I touched held her energy; I felt her constantly throughout this process. She talked to me as I contemplated prices; she giggled when I cursed her each time I found more stuff. And I cried several times as the Estate Sale approached. I fretted I'd no longer feel mom without these things in the house, but realized my mom wasn't these things; they simply reflected who she was. I felt grateful I got to know this part of her through this process.

In the days leading up to the Sale, I felt concern I would lose it as people walked out with mom's things. I meditated around this and realized mom wouldn't want her beautiful creations and things sitting in a closet collecting dust! She enjoyed them, and she'd want others to enjoy them too! I took great comfort in this knowledge, and as the Sale took place, my heart comforted as everyone demonstrated awe over the beautiful things. People who bought floral arrangements, Dept. 56 houses, her collectibles, etc. showed respect and admiration for them, which warmed my heart a part of mom's energy was bringing joy to others. I know my mom felt full of pride somewhere above that this facet of who she was, her legacy, would carry on bringing joy to others lives.

Our Grief and Closure

Yesterday during a Sunday visit with my dad, we looked at the things he’d recently sorted of my mom’s stuff. He and I perused all the remaining closets, rooms, cabinets and shelves still left to address when in one closet I found a pillow case stuffed with something. It was my Baby Tender Love doll from my preschool-aged childhood! Her hair was matted, badly suffering cowlicks. She still wore a little blue-print “onesie” gown that my mother had made for her (one of several little outfits). Other than a rip in the bottom hem and having a bad hair day, the little gal is in pretty good shape.

After I came home, I pulled Baby Tender Love out for a visit and the childhood memories came flooding back. We lived in an old dilapidated rental house on Redhill-Maxwell. As a child it seemed huge, though I remembered during a return visit as a teenager how small the rooms and yard really were. I remember playing with my dolls while sitting on the floor in the bedroom that I shared with my little brother, including my Barbie, PJ and Ken dolls for which Mom also made very fashionable clothes. I suppose all those outfits were pitched, though I did see a naked Barbie on a shelf. Evidently she's been a Nudist the last few decades.

As I remembered these memories, I hugged Baby Tender Love close to me as if she were my baby again. The rush of memories suddenly flashed forward to April 1996 when I lost my own baby at eleven weeks, and with it, the dream of being a mother. Grief struck out of nowhere and tears flowed for the little baby girl (my intuitive sense) I carried and called "Peanut." In hindsight, I now realize that I never experienced closure around this loss.

Before mom passed, I abhorred funerals. I never felt comfortable being in the same room as a dead body. Yet, I also recognized the event for what it was – closure for those who loved the one lost. When mom died, my experience was different. After seven plus years of spiritual development, and understanding life as we know it in human form is simply energy transitioning into spiritual form, I felt differently about funerals. I initially resented the visitation, because I was tired, grieving and I didn't want to meet and greet others. But I soon realized they also needed closure to deal with the passing of a friend, neighbor, relative, coworker and an acquaintance. After it was said and done, I was grateful for the visitation because I learned how much Mom impacted the lives of so many, and how they loved and appreciated her. It was such a gift.

As for my mom’s body being on display, her funeral was the first I’d been to since stepping into my spiritual journey. It wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward at all. I felt gratitude for the opportunity to have been present with my mom upon her death, and for the funeral that allowed my family and me to have closure through the final farewell as we prepared to return her to Mother Earth.

With my unborn child, there was no farewell; no funeral service or closure that signified she was gone; no opportunity to say “goodbye” after our short-lived relationship was over. There was only hemorrhaging through the night, labor pains and cramps as my body gave premature birth to the fetus. There was fear, uncertainty, and disconnect with the reality that I was losing my baby. The next morning was the doctor visit, then outpatient surgery for a DNC, then home to carry on as if none of it had ever happened. As if I’d awaken from a bad dream. I’d dealt with the grief off and on for several years afterward, and truly feel peace around it, despite the annual reminder of the lost dream of my being a mother to what would be a beautiful fourteen-year-old today. I think of “Peanut” every December, the month that would’ve been her birthday had she gone full-term.

Last evening as I held that baby doll, I strangely felt a connection I never felt with the child I lost. A physical connection that tapped right into grief left unfinished. A connection to what it might have felt like to hold my baby for the first time, if only briefly. I connected with that grief and felt a greater sense of closure. I was able to “hold” energetically my unborn baby to say “goodbye” as I embraced the Baby Tender Love that I loved so dearly as a child.

Grief is a process, ongoing and in many phases. Rushing grief is unproductive; denying grief only feeds its strength into volcanic releases. I've dealt with the loss of my unborn baby. Now this grief feels complete. Thanks Mom for hanging on to Baby Tender Love for me. And thank you Baby Tender Love for allowing me to say the goodbye I never had the chance to say fifteen years ago.

Exhaling Love, Peace and Harmony for All

My heart aches. It aches for the loss of three teenagers in Franklin County, Kentucky. It aches for the parents who are intimately experiencing this loss. It aches for friends who have lost loved ones. It aches for the loss of life in Japan, and the familiarity of life for those that survived. It aches for the planet that struggles to manage all the abuse that humanity puts it through. It aches for the loss of my Belle the Beagle. It aches for the loss of dreams that could’ve, would’ve and should’ve been for so many.

My heart aches for the upheaval of foreign countries, and the battles fought for the right to exist, freedom and justice. It aches for the economically depressed that must further struggle for the basics of food and gas in a shaky economy. It aches for the lonely. It aches for those who are lonely within relationships. It aches for those who seek some peace in their life through external means. It aches for those who are living life in a state of confusion, a sense of helplessness, and a sense of hopelessness.

Our world as we know it is changing, on a personal, local, state, national and global level. Are we prepared for such change? Are we willing to be open to change? Are we willing let go, surrender into the flow of these changes? Are we willing to trust in something Higher than ourselves, something Higher within ourselves, to move through these changes?

The sun shines and yet I carry melancholy in my heart. I am a sensitive – and there are days I’m not sure if what I feel is mine or that of the people I love or that of the Collective Unconscious. I breathe. I breathe deep and in the exhale, send out to the world as much unconditional love, peace and harmony as my heart can tap from the supply of the Great One Divine. I am but just one person, and my breath cannot do it alone. We ALL have access to this supply of love, peace and harmony within our hearts, infinitely supplied by the Great One Divine. Are you breathing deep and exhaling God Stuff? Are you sending unconditional love, peace and harmony to countries torn in war, ripped apart in disaster, grieved in loss?

If not, please do. Breathe. Long. Deep into your heart. Exhale the breath of Love, Peace, and Harmony that is the supply of God Within. Breathe deep for others with healing intention. Breathe deep for yourself and for the world.

Transition Happens

In my previous post, I discussed how we are witnessing shifts of energy – in which things are coming to an end so that new beginnings rise out of the ashes. My father currently undergoes his own transition as he begins the process of “wrapping up” life as he’s known it in the home on Marksberry Road that he and my mother built from the ground up. Eighteen months have passed since my mom’s death, and the time has come to downsize, clear out my mother’s things collected over 69 years, and prepare to sell the homestead.

Dad has been going through drawers and boxes of papers and items that mom collected: article clippings – by the hundreds from Southern Living and Martha Stewart magazines; clippings from newspapers about events that touched her heart and instilled her hope and faith in humanity; office supplies for her never-ending mission to be perfectly organized; silk flower arrangement and craft supplies for the many Martha Stewart projects she did and planned to do; purchase receipts; owner manuals; warranty information; billing statements and invoices; cancelled checks; tax papers; bank and investment statements; maps and AAA books of every state she and my father visited; the list goes on! Dad mumbles as he sifts through it, tossing most things and keeping a few things as he moves towards this inevitable life transition.

This weekend, my family gathered in Owensboro to celebrate my little brother’s birthday with brunch at the Moonlight Bar-B-Cue, then a visit to my mother’s grave. Afterwards, we went through some of mom’s personal memorabilia that dad had set out for us. Steve took what he wanted; I took what I wanted, and the rest was tossed. I was amazed, and rather pleased, with the state of peacefulness I felt as I sifted through old photos, love letters my dad had written to mom in their youth, her baby gown and a lock of her baby hair. She’d kept letters I’d sent to her over the years and my baby scrapbook. She stored carefully my old Apollo band Field Commander uniforms, as well as her own wedding dress and one of my childhood coats, all of which she’d made. This woman, my mother, continues to amaze me, even still today. Upon bringing these items home, I sorted through some other belongings I’d collected two months after her death – jewelry, more photos, a notebook recording her family’s genealogy, and keepsakes of her younger years; again, feeling such inner peace within as I touched these items that strongly hold her energy.

Though a great portion of this transition is my dad’s, it isn’t his transition alone. It’s my brother’s and mine, and even my sister-in-law’s and nephews. We’ve shared many memories in this house, on this land, with our neighbors and friends, grandmother, cousins, aunts and uncles, etc. I watched my mom and dad build this homestead with their blood, sweat, and yes, even tears of exhaustion and frustration, doing a little bit at a time over the thirty-five plus years they’ve lived there. My mom’s legacy lives on in her beautiful flower gardens. We’ve experienced a great deal of life on this place that overlooks beautiful Browns Valley, Kentucky: winter storms, birthdays, anniversaries, marriages, divorce, Sunday Smith family gatherings, heartaches, grandchildren, high school graduations, retirement, celebrations, disappointments, holidays, and the death of our matriarch.

Yes, grief over the loss of my mother finally eases its grip on my heart. The loss of a loved one means change, and I’m grateful to my dad for taking time to make this next and natural transition. He’s ready; my brother and I are ready. We want him safe, comfortable, and without worry of the huge responsibility of the homestead’s upkeep. And as time marches on, mom’s energetic presence permeates the household less as Dad has made it his home. He’s worked through the process of his grief, and we’ve paced with him. Several months ago, I felt dread around this impending transition, one much discussed over the last year. Today, I’m ready, willing and able to serve him for his highest and best, without the hooks of grief creating drama in and around the situation.


Does this mean the day he hands the keys to the house over that I won’t feel any emotion? Honestly, I don’t know. But I do know I will miss my homeplace. I will miss the comfort it has offered in times of upheaval in my life. It’s been a sanctuary, a retreat in my adult years. But the legacy of my mom and dad will forever live on in these eight acres to be enjoyed by another who I hope recognizes the depth and spiritual value of this piece of land and the house that sits upon it. More importantly, I hope the new owner will forever know and appreciate the energy of the love with which it was created.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Today would’ve been my mom’s 70th birthday. I knew today may be touch and go for me emotionally. I met my dad and we enjoyed lunch at one of her favorite restaurants, per his suggestion. Then we went to the cemetery to pay our respects, honor her and wish her a happy birthday. And shortly, I will be attending my first grief support meeting; why? In part to know I’m not going crazy when I have these grief-filled burps of emotion, and to better understand the process and to connect with others who are also moving through it.

Do you remember the scene in movie The Princess Bride when Westley and Buttercup are moving through the Fire Swamp? During their journey, unexpected spurts of fire would burst up from the ground, out of nowhere. I’m finding that grief is like a journey through the fire swamp with unexpected hits of emotion that come quite suddenly and strongly. It is an edginess that lowers my patience, or increases my irritability and defensiveness over the silliest things. It's a power surge that drains my joy, and a geyser of emotion bubbling up and pouring forth as tears. These blindsides of grief leave me feeling off balance and out of sorts; just not myself.

In these four months following my mother’s passing, we are moving through birthdays (both my dad’s and mom’s), my parent’s anniversary, and two major holidays. These are the “big ones” I’ve heard others who have lost loved ones describe as the most challenging. Is it a blessing to go through these “big ones” so quickly and in such a short amount of time or a curse?

I choose to consider it a blessing – for me personally, it allows me to “lean into it.” “It” meaning the grief, while I have the time and space in which to adjust to the absence of my mom in my life, to heal and purge all the emotion I feel around it. Perhaps then I can move forward, cleansed and more light-hearted. I’m not naïve enough to believe that my grieving will be complete after the first four months but it is my hope that it will not nearly as intense as it has felt the last two months. Time will only tell.

I’ve been told that the first year after the loss of the loved one is the hardest. With each 3rd of the month that passes, I give thanks for one more month behind the loss, counting how many are left in that “first year.” However, I don’t think I’ll ever get over wanting to hold my mom’s hand, exchange mother-daughter hugs and kisses, pick up the phone to talk about our respective days, share confidences, and just gab for the sake of gabbing. And I guess in a way, I don’t want to get over wanting those things with my mom, for I wonder that if I do, am I shifting into having taken it all for granted? I don’t know the answer, and intuitively, I don’t think so. But I do know I feel her constantly around me; she’s visited a couple of times in my dreams, and converses with me often. So, I will adjust to just being with her in this different way, and know that whatever I need moving forward as a motherless child, I can find with the love and support of my friends and family who are mothers of their own children.

Namaste.

Anatomy of Losing A Loved One

Many of you who have been following my blog know my mom recently passed from this life on Thursday, September 3rd. A dear friend suddenly lost her dad this week, and I now know, better understand the experience she and her siblings will go through upon losing a parent. Each experience of loss is different for each of us, and depends on the kind of relationship we had with the loved one. And each of us will handle differently what transpires following the loved one’s death; but I’m sharing my personal experience of dealing with the loss in the days and weeks that have followed so that you who have not been through such a loss (blessedly!) can better understand in some small way what we who have experienced it go through. It doesn’t even begin to touch upon “living the experience” but I’m hopeful you can better appreciate why friends going through such a loss might withdraw, become non-responsive and check-out, become brooding and moody, not seem themselves and out of sorts for any given amount of time.

Upon my mom’s transition, my dad, brother and I were with her when she drew her last breaths. I have never seen someone transition, never having been present when another human being left this Earthly realm. It wasn’t what I expected; it has replayed in my mind many times, and now and again, continues to do so. It’s one of those moments etched in your memory that you will forever recall. The sound of the final gasps of breath. The gurgling of each breath. The body’s strain to take them. My mother’s face as she did so. It brings tears to my eyes to think of it, even at this writing, but I am grateful I was there to be with her, support her as she left this world into the next glorious Realm.

The week and plus days that followed was like being in a time warp, but it felt like we were on Novocain. We were all numb, and immediately after mom’s passing, there were final arrangements to attend to, which provided us with some distraction. But we also had time on our hands before we moved into the visitation and funeral service phase. In the time leading up to these events, we found distraction in the company of family members, loved ones, and DVD’s. We found comfort in the endless supply of food that people brought over. But the visitation and funeral service: I dreaded these two days for I knew it would be intense. The resentful human part of me didn’t want to do any of it. We are physically and emotionally drained from the loss. And we are not only managing our own emotions over this loss, but we are called upon during these times to support others expressions of loss, those who are also saddened. I didn’t want to hear words of encouragement and comfort that really didn’t feel helpful or comforting. We must also manage others’ discomfort with death, and their loss of their friend in mom. But in support of my father, and in honor of my mother, I resolved to open my heart and mind to the experience, releasing all human angst over to the Universe, and moved into being in every moment of the experience. I found the strength and energy from God Within to move through each moment with ease and grace.

Many people came to pay their respects to the family, and we were touched to learn just how well so many people thought of mom. I personally was touched and amazed at all who came to the visitation; people I hadn’t seen since grade school – teachers, family of childhood friends, classmates, and so many others. The days were long, but filled with the support and love of family, locally and from out of town. Sunday evening after the visitation, our house was filled with approximately 50 family members, young and old, to enjoy food and company. It made for a long tiring day but it offered relief in the form of laughter. It also helped us sleep through the night on the eve of the funeral.

The funeral service had been planned by mom prior to the deterioration of her health. One of the blessings our family enjoyed in all of this was mom getting all her ducks in a row around her affairs. This in and of itself was one of many greatest gifts she gave us before her earthly departure. Funeral arrangements and all the details had been previously made; finalizing them after her death was a formality and effortless. The funeral service she planned, down to the music and who would speak was beautiful, and we’ve received so many compliments. It was a relief to have that closure; but with one door closed, another door opens into the next phase of the loss.

The week following the funeral, we are all still slightly numb mixed with a bit of shock and awe. But we had more to do - thank you notes to those who sent flowers, contributions, etc. My brother and his wife, dad and I sat down and took care of the business. It wasn’t quite a week since mom passed but it seemed that so much taken place in such a short period of time. It seemed surreal. The one week mark hit on Thursday, and slowly, the numb feeling began to fade and the reality of mom’s absence made itself known, along the pain that accompanies the loss. I managed to distract myself much as possible through the weekend, but my façade of being “okay,” along with my intention to “move on” began cracking under the pressure of grief bubbling to the surface. One week and a day after mom’s passing, my brother and his wife returns home to Frankfort and their lives, leaving Dad and I at the house where we’d been in service of mom for two months, and for Dad, even longer. One week after burying my mom, ten days after my mom died, all emotional hell broke loose for me; I crashed and burned for two days, physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

It’s just been six weeks since mom crossed over. Two weeks after her death, I left town and headed to South Dakota and Colorado for a getaway. Several Interstates experienced my tears as I sobbed like a baby whenever I thought of my mom, saw something that reminded me of her, or I felt my mom’s presence around me. The emotion purged up uncontrollably steamrolling through me, at times. I cried even more upon my arrival to Colorado, and in the nurturing and loving arms of my spiritual family and support group. The trip was good, for it allowed me the space to process mentally, spiritually and emotionally the loss, and my life without my mom in it. Upon my return, I finally crashed physically, as all the energies of the grief manifested through a head cold, forcing me to stop, sit still, rest my body and sleep; it was the most I’d sat still since I came home in July to care for mom.

Life goes on. Each Thursday, I feel a heaviness come over my heart, for mom was Thursday’s child (born and died on Thursday). I watch a DVD and see someone losing a loved one, and in hypersensitivity, I break down in more expression of grief, thus missing several minutes of the movie. I’m feeling more myself, but then I’m touched by another’s personal loss, such as my dear friend. My heart aches with an understanding of what she’s experiencing, and her sense of responsibility she’ll feel to forge ahead as a pillar of strength for the family and the community, when you really just want to curl up in a corner and cry like a baby. And lately, I experience “what if” moments, when I wonder, what if I’d been home more often to spend more quality time with her, what if she’d met my Beloved, and what if she’d gotten to do more of the things she’d wanted to do. It’s part of the process; and I gently think the thoughts, and then gently let them go. This is the key to moving through the grief and keeping one’s sanity within it.

As for supporting those of us experiencing such a loss, just listen to us share our feelings, and acknowledge them. Don’t tell us what we need to do to get through the grief; even if you’ve been through it personally, remember we each handle our grief uniquely. Tell us you are available for us to call and talk to you, and that you’re happy to listen and share your own experiences if we want to hear them. Hold us when we are crying, tearing up, and even when we are being unreasonable and irrationally out of sorts for the situation at hand. Just a simple hand on the shoulder or back to reassure us we’re not alone in this is helpful. Be patient with us, understanding and just asking “what can I do for you?” Tell us it is okay to be sad and to cry; don’t tell us “you’ve got to move on.” When its appropriate, help us get out, keep busy with a project; there’s an appropriate time for us to wallow in the emotion, but help us move out of it by bringing over supper, a DVD and popcorn, or an art project. And ask us questions about the loved one, especially if you didn’t know him or her well. We love to talk about our loved ones we’ve lost, for it helps us stay connected to them in a different and new way; don’t think it’s too painful to bring the loved one up to us, and yes, we may even cry when we do talk about them, but that’s okay. You just need to be okay with it if we do. Know that we are in pain as we watch other family members left behind go through this loss too. Watching my dad move about this house, alone and without my mom for the first time in 45 years is heartbreaking. He relied on mom for a great deal, and he misses her presence, her company a lot. We all do. So know we are feeling empathy pain of another’s grief, which leaves us feeling helpless to our loved ones, as well as our own grief.

For me, I’m feeling more like myself, but I still need support. I have a wonderful man who catches me when I collapse under the heartache, but I also need to know what I’m feeling is normal, healthy; so I’ve found a grief support group to connect with so that I’m feeling less alone in this muck. If you are not sure how to support someone in grief, get educated. There’s a wonderful Grief Library at Owensboro’s Glenn Funeral Home’s website, www.glennfuneralhome.com, by a specialist who resides in Colorado. Or go to a grief support group with your friend; he or she will appreciate your support in this way.

I’ve never lost someone so close to me before until the passing of my mom. I’ve lost dogs, grandparents, even an uncle, but this relationship was the greatest loss I’ve experienced. I appreciate the support I’ve received; but I’m not done grieving. Just know we appreciate your love and support continuously, even if we look like we’re doing okay.