Can I have a Do-Over?

As parents, bereaved parents, we need to take time and appreciate that we are doing a good job.  Heck some days I am doing a great job.  Other days I just want a do-over; reset and let me try that one again.
At a recent busy sporting event I had my oldest with me for the entire day and it was nice to have time devoted to Mom and Biggest kid.  After the event we were invited back to another family's house and my son wanted to go, so we did.  There were about 5 teenage athletes that came back with us and hung out in another part of the house while I was having tea with the mom getting to know one another.  It wasn't long before there were six teenagers were hanging out in the kitchen with us - possibly scavenging for food but in the vicinity nonetheless.  The other mom was commenting on the age gap between my boys, asking all of their ages specifically.  Before I could answer the Biggest replied "We have another brother but we lost him."
The 5 other teenagers stopped chatting and the mother asked him what he said (kindly) and all I could think was did the air just get sucked out of the room?

My Biggest said again "We had another brother, Flynn, he was three years younger then me and we lost him."  I corrected him - it was all I could do - "Honey you are correct and he died, shortly after he was born."  The mother was sympathetic, if not completely thrown for a loop. The teenagers were fascinated, the Biggest continued to chat about his brother as they headed back downstairs and I was left feeling exposed,like my secret identity had been revealed.
I have learned that talking about Flynn is easier for me if I feel ready and prepared for the conversation. It is a very intentional act and something that I do not bring into casual relationships.  I guess some would call it guarded.  My Biggest charges into this discussion with a different perspective and understanding of his relationship to his brother.

When we left the house I talked to the Biggest about bringing up Flynn.  I started by letting him know that it was okay to talk about Flynn but that saying things like "we lost him" is confusing when in actuality he died.  I tried to help him see how vocabulary can change the intent of the message. Then I asked him why he brought up Flynn and although I meant it out of curiousity, a part of it was due to my own discomfort.
"He is my brother and if people want to know me they will know about him. I always tell people about him, usually right away."
"Well buddy it is just a very vulnerable aspect of who you are and I worry about you sharing that with people too soon." Even now as a type this I wonder, did I really say that and yep I did.
"I want people to know about him; he was a human being too you know?"
I stopped.  It really was that simple, wasn't it.  Here I was complicating it, caving into societal expectations and definitions of life, death and the value associated with both. Here was my man-child simplifying it down to the root - a place I rarely touched anymore and sadly he thought I didn't realize how human Flynn is.
"That he was, a very special one too."
Where is that parent Do-over button when you need it?

Pardon, what did you say?

People say sympathetic things with the best intention and as a griever it can be hard to recognize that although the words are anything but appropriate the intention is meant to be caring and helpful.

I started to see a chiropractor a month ago and as a new patient in his practice, we had to do an initial consultation. At my first visit we went over my medical history, how many children I have, how many pregnancies, stresses in my life, etc. and during this consultation I explained Flynn's life and death and also my occupation. He was very kind and empathetic, I appreciated that and because of his demeanor felt that this would be a good relationship to aid in my physical well being.
I went for an appointment a week ago after seeing him 2-3 times a week for 3 weeks. We have seen each other so much over the past 3 weeks that we are on a first name basis and I recognized right away that he seemed off of his game and not his normal chipper self. During the treatment he asked me about the emerald ring I wear and whether it was my birth stone and when I told him that it was actually for Flynn and it was his birth stone, he seemed completely flabbergasted. He apologized, told me how sorry he was to hear of my son's death and asked how it happened. I was equally surprised by his lack of memory but chalked it up to a bad day and told him again how Flynn had died due to his premature birth. He responded with "well there must have been a reason."
Humpf!
I felt totally deflated and disappointed. After hearing this response several hundred times over the past 8 years I have come to appreciate the underlying intent of "a reason" but that night any "reason" for my son's death was lost to me. I stared dumbfounded, had my treatment and went home.
The week in between the appointments I was tormented with thoughts of my conversation with my chiropractor. I also recalled, with a sense of irony, that I had left my original chiropractor soon after Flynn's death for saying the exact same thing. Was I destined to live without a back adjustment due to "reason"?
I had to believe that I was in a different place with my grief now, a place of growth and the opportunity to educate. I decided that at my next appointment I would talk to my chiropractor and tell him how "a reason" could negatively impact someone. I would make positive suggestions for dialogue surrounding news of a death that could help him approach it more delicately in the future.

I went into my appointment and before the treatment began I gently tried to start the conversation:
"I just wanted to let you know that last week when I was here we discussed my son's death and I could tell you were having an off day so when we discussed it you had said that there must have been a reason..."

This is where he broke into my explanation and said "What were we talking about last week? I don't remember a discussion?" (or something to that affect)

So thrown off, I tried a different approach:
"Because I work in grief support and helping people manage and cope with grief I sometimes see opportunities to support the community in how to help the griever and when you said that there must be a reason for my son's death (last week) it threw me off because there was a time when that statement has or would have upset me, I just wanted to let you know that when someone has experienced a death, a "reason" may not bring them comfort and "I" statements can be much more comfortable like "I cannot imagine what you are going through...""

He broke in again and said:

"You know I can be really sarcastic and rude and someone will think what I said is hilarious and laugh along and then I take time and try to say something thoughtful and someone can be totally offended, I am sorry if what I said upset you but I won't say the right thing all the time."

Stunned.
I nodded my head at this point, had the treatment and mentally noted to myself that I would not be returning to this chiropractor either. It seems that even 8 years on my grief journey and I can still be affected by the sympathetic yet inappropriate things that people say.

The Funeral Shower

As a society we celebrate the love and the expressions of love in our lives. We come together as a family and as friends to embrace the people expressing their love through the purchase of a family home, the wedding, the addition of children. We publicly acknowledge their love through ceremony and we support their love through the housewarming party, the wedding or baby shower. We make sure that they get a good start to this new endeavour in life maybe because we ourselves have been there and know how difficult a start in life can be. We want to let our loved ones know that they have our support.

So why don't we throw a funeral shower? Isn't a funeral a public ceremony to show people the love and grief we feel at the death of our family or friend? Is it not a new start in life, one without that person, an adjustment in identity, a need for support? Wouldn't our society look at death differently if we celebrated the love in the life at the time of death?
Imagine a funeral shower as a coming together of people (family and friends) after the death in a poignant celebration to honour the life of that person and support the people who loved them.

You may think that is the funeral. A funeral is a ceremony run mostly by a funeral home and funeral director, people who never knew the loved one, trying to memorialize them based on pictures and memories pulled together possibly under traumatic circumstances by grieving individuals. A funeral is a necessary event to publicly acknowledge the death but it does not necessarily give the family the love and support they need to sustain them.

Maybe the funeral shower could have a theme (like fishing/hunting for someone like my dad) and people would bring prepared dishes for freezing, groceries and gifts that the family will need to cope and manage through the next couple of months. There could even be games, activities that gave people the opportunity to tell stories about the loved one, play on nostalgia, allow people to express love for that person in a public display of affection through the sharing or memories.
What if the gifts at a funeral shower were gift certificates toward the headstone (they are costly), handyman services, lawn maintenance packages, home grocery services, all bought and paid for. What if a funeral shower honoured the life of the loved one by ensuring their family was looked after for the start of this new life?
What if like a honeymoon period, where newlyweds have excuses for their cuddling and public displays of affection, we acknowledged a bereavement period where family and friends were allowed to act out of character, express their grief, have excuses for erratic behaviour? Granted grief stays with you much longer than a honeymoon period but it would be a start for society to acknowledge grief as an expression of love and death as the start of a new life for those that loved that person.
Imagine if we allowed death to be a celebration of the love we had and the grief we are experiencing where the expectation is that these things exist and need our love and support to provide a healthy start for those grieving? Something to think about.

Anatomy of a Griever

For any scientific or literal people I will ask for your forgiveness because the way that I will use the word "anatomy" deviates slightly (or a great deal) from its technical or literal meaning. I could not find another word that would help to illustrate the meaning behind this blog.
I speak with people all day about the way that death and losing a loved one changes you. I talk to them about the expectations we place on ourselves, how we think we should react and behave a certain way. I make them aware that we also put expectations on those around us to have an amount of grief or understanding that they may not have. I talk to them about how grief affects them on every level. In having these discussions it occurred to me that the changes I was discussing always related to philosophical, spiritual, emotional and short term physical changes. I am becoming aware that in being a support to grieving people I am learning and something that I recently learned is that I did not accommodate for the permanent changes that take place in regard to your senses, memory, perception and how they are physically apparent and how it contributes to your grief journey over the long term.
The only way to make sense of what I am trying to say is to explain it using my own experiences and the awareness I have gained working these past seven months.
I am acutely aware that my sense of smell has changed. I know now that is very closely tied with my memories and how I remember certain things. Vaseline Intensive Care will always remind me of my Grandma. I have a very strong sense of smell (not always a good thing) and when I was losing Flynn there were many different smells that surrounded his dying. At times it is those smells that make me remember or bring comfort to a time when I need to remember. There was the smell of the sterile environment like the alcohol, sanitizer, and staleness of closed windows and doors. The medicinal smell of antibiotics, saline solution, iodine and soap. The metal of the tools in the room seemed to give off an earthy, cold smell that has stuck with me and all of this was mixed with the smell of blood and sweat. At times I have come across these smells and it can bring back a sense of loss or the chaos of the experience, sometimes the smell does not come from something that I can see but rather seems like a form of memory recognition and it allows me to reflect on the memory of the day and take things out of it that are more important than the chaos. This is one of the ways that my anatomy has changed.
I have had some very physical changes, not noticeable to the eye or even with an x-ray. The hole in the middle of my guts, what started as the pit, the insatiable hollow gnawing just above my stomach after Flynn died. Now it is replaced with a scarred over space that if I do not take time to appreciate it, I am reminded of its existence. A doctor would most likely read this and scoff but I felt it for years after Flynn died, it was so physical that there were times I wrenched at my middle trying to fill it or pull it out. It flares up when I am exhausted, when I watch someone hurt, it reminds me, it is another way that I have changed.
My hearing has changed, although there is a bit of a joke in this statement, I do struggle with my actual hearing at times, I mean now I listen for different things, I am not sure that I listened before. I take note of what people are wanting or trying to tell me. I hear them and I respond with sincerity. I hear joy and laughter and I hear sadness and fear, I hear more than the words. I am more aware of inflection and that words are only half of what someone is trying to say.
My arms have undergone a change as well. They hold the most significant memory for me, that of holding Flynn after he was born. He only weighed one pound six ounces, but I remember at the time thinking how substantial he felt in my arms. I am blessed that my arms remember him and at times I feel the weight and warmth of him in my arms like I held him only yesterday, I am so appreciative to have this change to my anatomy especially when my mind struggles to remember the details.
The most meaningful change has been to my heart. I am sure that again, to look at and examine it as a medical profession, it would probably appear the same as any other heart. But it was never so apparent to me that it was a part of my body. I am conscious of its existence now, I feel it beat as a reminder of my life within me. I can feel it swell with love, respect and joy and I also feel the muscles in it tense and move with more force when I am faced with other's pain and sadness. I am so grateful that it has adapted to accommodate my changes, the way that life has grown for me from the moment of tremendous loss to one filled with love and purpose.
It may not be an evidenced part of my anatomy that has changed, it would not qualify as anything that needs to be investigated medically but it is definitely a measured change in my metaphysical anatomy that I have encountered as I work on my journey of grief.

Seven Year Old Toddler

I was recently thrown off guard when an acquaintance, hearing that Flynn had died 7 years ago, asked me if I pictured a seven year old when I thought of him?
I really needed to think about that, I don't know if I had even thought about what he looked like since he was born. What did that mean, did it speak to how I grieved or what type of mom I was? Should I be trying to picture a version of him at an age he should have been, had he lived? Do other mothers visualize their children at ages and milestones, can they age the last visual memory they have of their children and if so, why couldn't I? This was one of those moments when I needed to allow myself to be just Flynn's mom and find what felt best and made the most sense for me.
My acquaintance stood patiently as I searched for the answer.
"To be honest, he was only a baby in the delivery room, once he had passed away and the funeral was over Landy and I pictured him as a toddler because at the time Rhys was almost 3 and we really felt that we had lost getting to know Flynn as an infant, baby and toddler, the way we knew Rhys."
I was not sure that this explanation sounded sane, the woman shook her head in acceptance but I felt I needed to continue to explain.
"I think having Rhys, we wanted to have another child, while I was pregnant we pictured a child growing up with and like Rhys because at the time he was the only child that we knew. Flynn has always remained a 3 year old to me."
The woman thanked me for my honesty and for allowing her to ask, I should have thanked her for opening up a dialogue with myself so that I could be comfortable with my memories.
When and if I picture Flynn, he has a head full of wavy, dark reddish hair with a chubby face, narrow nose, almond eyes and full red lips, he is tall for his age but solid, everything about him looks chubby and healthy, he looks the most like Landy of all the boys and he is 3.
He is and will always be my second son, Rhys's first brother and our family's angel.