Tag: grief

“The truth is, we all need a mentor.”
I certainly agree with the above statement. And, I don’t really have a mentor. I have found some help in podcasts, especially ones with David Kessler and, of course, Meghan’s books.
There is one woman in my life who suffered a horrible loss quite a few years ago now and she has reached out to me a few times. Hopefully we will be able to get together to talk some time soon.
There’s also a couple in our community, who lost a son a few years ago and they have offered to meet with us.

There’s a saying that says something like “when the student is ready, the teacher will appear”. I’m hoping that happens.
My therapist has also told me that there are therapists that just work with those in grief and she can refer me if needed.

So I guess there’s help out there, maybe even a mentor for me.

Some writers here have written about being their own mentor. I like that idea and am giving it some thought. 5 years ago, I lost my mom and then, 6 months later, my sister. So grief is certainly not a stranger to me but losing my daughter has taken it to a whole new level. I think somewhere deep deep inside, I know that I have the strength to do this, but 99% of me still believes I cannot survive this loss.

I came back to add that I find the Lord of The Rings encouraging. There are many instances where Frodo truly feels he cannot go on and do what life has asked of him. But with the help of friends, especially Sam, he is able to keep taking the next step.

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without ceasing
I have been
devoured
consumed
hollowed by
inescapable
memories.

wanting relief
I ventured
distressed into
substantial mountains
of chronic lack.

again
truth dawns:
she, the beautiful
is gone.

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Again I come to today’s prompt raw. I think it’s because my daughter’s memorial service is coming up this weekend and I’m dreading it. I’m imagining that after the service I will feel even more finality ; having the reality that she is gone sink in at a deeper level.

How to be kind to my sad self. A list:
Say no when I don’t want to do something.
Ask for alone time when I need it.
Say yes when my desire to isolate is hurting me.
Eat something.
Call my doctor for something to help me sleep. Take what is prescribed.
Perfectionism: give it up!
Try to spend time in nature. Allow the sights and smells in.
Cry without judgment.
Give and receive hugs.
Let people help.
Stay in bed. Take a nap or rest as wanted.
Be honest, even if you think people are tired of hearing it.
Write badly. Just get the grief out.
Light a candle
Take deep breaths (remember to breathe).

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Hello, I am grief.
You’ve met me before, remember? When your mother died, and then your sister. I came to you then; I stayed awhile.
This time I think I’ll settle in… sit beside you, sleep in your bed, follow you wherever you go, whomever you’re with. Yes, I think I’ll stay.
I know you don’t like me, you wish I’d leave. But the reason I’m here, the reason I stay is because, really, I’m just another name for love. Yes it’s true, I’m here because you loved.
It seems hard that love can hurt so bad. But love can and does hurt.
I know I weigh you down and make it hard for you to accomplish even the simplest tasks. I know, because of me, you cry, you ache, you mourn. I know and I’m sorry. But this, this is love.
Some may refer to me as the darker side of love, and that may also be true.
The truth so often hurts.
All I ask of you is that you let me stay for as long as I need to. There are things only I can teach you and my teaching takes time.

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The past day and a half has been extraordinarily hard. I have felt so raw, so exhausted.

Feeling empty and hollow and full of sorrow at the same time. Wondering again how I’m supposed to survive without her.

Today’s prompt is about smells and the memories they evoke.

Each morning she’d start her day with tea. Good Earth tea, to be exact (because, she said it reminded her of childhood), and the house would be filled with the smells of cinnamon and orange.

No one drinks it now. The box sits untouched in the cabinet.

She smelled of cocoa butter and lavender, mixing her lotion with the essential oil that she loved.

I use her lotion now (it’s almost gone, I will buy more) and the smell of lavender brings her right back.

A very nice lady offered to make us a quilt from some of Abi’s clothing. Picking out the clothes of course involves going into her closet. Wow. I now understand why people hang onto clothing and resist cleaning out the closet.

I find myself wanting to go in and close the door, drinking in what remains, the scent of her.

I still have the comb they used for her hair while she was in the ICU, and I also have a lock of her hair. Both smell of her in those last days.

Every night I touch the lock of hair, smelling it, remembering. Her.

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I wake choked.

The air is acrid,

heavy and filled with smoke

here in this place I now reside.

A burned out forest,

filled with black

stumps, snags and fallen trees,

testament to the life that was here,

before she died.

I walk and my feet

stir up clouds

of ash.

My head aches with it,

my eyes burn and tear.

Soon I am covered

and no amount of

scrubbing

relieves me of this,

this death,

this loss, this ravaged place.

I am stained with it,

grief.

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If I could tell people something, tell them what is true, what is true about grief and love and loss, something they do not know, or can’t know, what would it be?

Waking every morning is like experiencing the loss all over again. As I come into consciousness, the last 3 years, the last days of her life and the finality of her death, all rush in as if it just happened yesterday. I open my eyes to a world that she is no longer part of and this reality feels too hard to bear.

Grief is VERY lonely. There are days when my phone is silent and it makes me think that everyone has forgotten this awful thing that happened. That they (you) are all moving on with life while I cannot. If you think about texting or emailing or calling, do it. Even if I don’t answer, know that hearing from you makes a difference. I understand that you don’t know what to say, so here are some ideas: “I’m thinking of you”, “I know you are hurting and I’m sorry”. And please don’t be offended if I don’t answer, or if my answer is brief. I also, don’t know what to say.

Even though I am out of bed and somewhat presentable, it still feels like I am dying inside. I’m doing my best to show up for life and it’s challenging. What you don’t see are the private tears and the fact that I stayed in bed for 2 hours after waking up. Grief is hard, hard work.

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I don’t have a name. I am not the person I used to be. My name used to be “Abi’s mom” and I cherished that name, Maybe I cherished it more than I should have. I certainly was honored to bear that name . Honored to mother such a beautiful soul.

The last 3 years saw a change in me. I became, once again, her caregiver. But, unlike when she was small, this felt somehow wrong and out of order.

I have no regrets. Though I do have painful and beautiful memories. The first time I saw her scar from the first of several major surgeries. How changed and raw and vulnerable she was, after being opened up like that. We joked about the Mercedes Benz insignia that scarred her from one side of her abdomen to the other, but it really wasn’t funny. Not at all.
Then there was the time when her newest wound wouldn’t stay closed and required a lot of care and attention. I was honored once again to offer such care, as if to lay it at her feet as a blessing. Blessing her body, blessing her soul. I also got to help her bathe and put lotion on her ravaged body. I got to hold her as she vomited from the chemo and place a cool rag on her forehead when she was too warm. Oh, the many little things I was blessed to offer.

Caregiver. I cared. I gave care.

And my mind goes to the last days of her life, just 3 weeks ago. Placing salve on her many bruises from the too many IV attempts. Running my fingers through her hair. Answering her last questions (“are there any berries?”, “can I have some bread?”, “will you help me dress?”, “will you help me pack?”) and all of the answers were “yes”. Oh, my heart.
The problem is I still care. I still long to give care.
Yet she is gone. I am not the person I used to be.
And
I have another name. Mother. Not just “Abi’s mom”, but “Ben’s mom” and “Jack’s mom”. And these names are like tethers to keep me here. They must.

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So I have joined a grief writing group.

When Abi was diagnosed I truly felt like I had lost the ability to express myself in writing. I still struggle with that feeling. It just felt too big, too awful for words. And it was.

But now I am going to try. And my purpose is not to write well. My purpose is to grieve. So, read at your own risk! I promise only to be honest with my grief. That’s all.

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Let us agree

for now

that we will not say

the breaking

makes us stronger

or that it is better

to have this pain

than to have done

without this love.

Let us promise

we will not

tell ourselves

time will heal

the wound,

when every day

our waking

opens it anew.

Perhaps for now

it can be enough

to simply marvel

at the mystery

of how a heart

so broken

can go on beating,

as if it were made

for precisely this-

as if it knows

the only cure for love

is more of it,

as if it sees

the heart’s sole remedy

for breaking

is to love still,

as if it trusts

that its own

persistent pulse

is the rhythm

of a blessing

we cannot

begin to fathom

but will save us

nonetheless.

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