A Grandma Day

Three years ago today my grandma died.
As grandma's go mine was pretty special. She loved me so much, (along with my brother and cousins, her children and family) I knew she was always in my corner, she encouraged me to be more and do more and she had confidence in who I was and who I could be. She was a tough lady and sometimes her way of showing her love was hard to appreciate but having overcome so many personal obstacles, if she thought you needed a push, you were getting a push.
In fact the last thing time we spoke, she gave me a push. This time it was to leave her bedside and take the family trip we were leaving on. The day she was put into the hospital was the day we were set to leave for Florida. I was working for the morning and we were leaving at noon and when my dad called to tell me that she was admitted and it did not look good, I did not want to leave. I went up to the hospital to see her, with only a few hours until we were supposed to start our drive. I could not keep from crying, she looked so tiny and so frail and I had to leave the room. My grandpa followed me out and told me that we had to go to Florida, she would not want me to stay. I composed myself and went back into the room, I totally intended on telling my grandma that I was not leaving, she looked at me and said "You need to go on this trip, I have survived this long, I don't know why you are crying, I will be here when you get back." There was no more discussion, no use in fighting, she had said her peace and that was that. I kissed her on the head and told her I loved her and took my boys to Florida.
On Saturday March 17th as we were driving to the Georgia border in the very early hours of the morning, my grandma died surrounded by my parents, my grandpa and my aunt. I was so sad that I was not there with her, I had always thought that would be a moment that she would need me but she needed me to be anywhere but there. I cried when my dad told me she was gone. The tears were a combination of sadness and relief that her tireless fight had come to an end. I also cried in gratitude because I knew that her years of battling illness was for me and all of our family, so that she could remain a fierce presence in our lives.

I had a dream in December of 2006, four months before she died, in it she was dying and we both knew it and she asked to talk to me. When I sat down beside her, she took my hand and told me that she had seen Flynn and that she knew she would hold him soon.
Three years ago my grandma died and since that moment I have appreciated how much she lived.

The Grief Pusher

You may have met a grief pusher before, you may even be one.  It may have happened when you experienced the death of a mutual family member, a friend among a group of friends, or maybe you are the “glue” of the family, where everyone looks to you and you likewise support or advise.  When you are surrounded by people who are experiencing the same death and also grieving, it seems a natural reaction to pull them along to where we are with our own grief, or push them past where we have been.

When Flynn died, I became the grief pusher in my relationship with Landy.  I was keen, eager to educate myself on our death experience, on government support plans, on grief and available support.  I joined several chat rooms, called counseling agencies and contacted local bereavement support groups.  I told my story over and over again, found comfort in websites with mothers who had common experiences to mine, talked to counselors about the depth of the sadness, my parenting skills (which felt non-existent) and the strain on my marriage.  I did everything that I knew to do to try to beat this grief thing before it could get the best of me in fact everything that I have listed above occurred in the first four months after Flynn died.  I did say I was keen.

A week after Flynn died, Landy went back to work.  He was in a physically demanding job that kept him away from home long hours and sometimes weekends as well. I could not believe he was ready to go back to work already, when I could hardly get out of bed.  I decided he was suppressing his grief that was the only way.

 When he got home from work, I welcomed the end of a very isolating day, someone to help with parenting 3 year old Rhys, someone to talk to about all the thoughts and feelings that had tormented my thinking and kept me from leaving the house.  When Landy got home from work, he wanted to take off his work clothes, shower and “turn off” his mind.  He wanted to play with Rhys, maybe watch TV or go for a walk, he wanted to talk with me and share our days but not if that talk was about Flynn.

I wanted so desperately to talk to Landy about how I was feeling, to share what conclusions I had made about Flynn’s death, about our future, about how to parent a grieving preschooler.  We were in this together, we had this common experience, a son whom we both loved and whom we both buried.  To me it only made sense that we should be grieving together, talking and crying together and when Landy wanted no part of my grief, I really started suspecting that he was not grieving properly or at all.  That is when the grief pushing started.

Instead of crying alone, at home during the day, I began calling Landy when I cried, while he was at work or on the road to share the emotions I was struggling with.  I started printing out the conversations from the websites with other moms, with the thought that they validated my tears and grief.  I would wake Landy in the middle of the night when my insomnia hit, letting him know how hard it was to sleep and how lonely the night time was for me.  I begged him to share with me, to tell me how he was struggling to let me know when he felt the worst or when he cried.  If he had an answer to any of these questions, I was elated, feeling like we were doing this grief thing together, but if he hadn’t struggled that week, if he didn’t want to share, I wondered if we were doomed or if his suppression would lead to “issues” down the road.

Wanting to share and grieve together turned into pressure to be the same.  My crying turned into pleading and my phone calls turned into accusations that Landy was void of feelings.  Instead of wanting Landy to share, I wanted him to hurt in a way that made my hurt feel like it was normal.  I began to equate my amount of grief to his lack of grief and surmise that his love for our son or me was not comparable to my love for both of them.  I began to push grief on him, force him to grieve or admit to not feeling, there seemed to be no other option.  He would never get over the grief if he didn’t even face it in the first place.

It was in our support group through Bereaved Families of Ontario (BFO) that I finally heard the words, everyone’s grief is unique.  In fact they told me that no two people, no matter the relationship to the deceased, will grieve the same way.  A mother and father may experience the death of the same child, but they will grieve a unique relationship to that child that will be impacted by who they are as individuals.  What looks like grief on one person will not look the same on someone else.  It opened my eyes to what I had been trying, with best intentions, to do to Landy.  To make him grieve the way that was familiar to me, to make him grieve like I would grieve.

After hearing about grief at BFO I decided that I owed Landy an apology for months of pushing grief.  On a car ride to nowhere I told him how wrong I had been to force his grief to look like mine. I told him that I realized that whether he wanted to talk or cry, to work or to stay home that I had no right to tell him how to grieve his son.  After my apology we had the first real conversation in months, it was on that car ride that he told me the hardest time of the day for him was when he was driving.  The road into work and home he was alone with his thoughts of Flynn, of what could have been and of the family that was grieving the emptiness left by our baby boy.  In the car, with songs on the radio and no-one to talk to or talking to him, Landy’s mind wondered to the grief and sadness over our loss and at times, he told me he would just cry for the half hour it took to make the drive.  It was nice to know that we both felt the loss, even if it did not look the same.

Today and Grief

I have felt a little stuck lately on what to write about. This blog is definitely about grief and the day to day, but I don't want to be giving advice, I wanted to talk about walking the walk, how the journey continues and at times I have found that a particularly hard thing to do (write about it, and walk it).
There are all different types of coping methods to make the grief manageable and at times you need to change them, reinvest in them because the grief changes as does the journey.
Flynn died 8 years ago in May, but right now, where I am in my journey, this all feels surreal. Not like the shock of the news in 2002 but more like an old movie that I have not watched in a long time, where at times I forget a good deal of the plot and only snippets can be pulled from the recesses of my brain. I am not forgetting Flynn and I am not afraid of that, after all I would not have veered off my life path, to who I am today, if it were not for his birth, but I am somewhere where I do not need to touch the pain of him as often. I am at peace with his notable absence from my everyday and as with all movements in the grief journey it is not static, what I am comfortable with on year 8 may look very different on year 10.
I encounter my grief everyday because it became a part of my life a long time ago, but right now it tends to be like the one breath in a day that I hold for a second before letting it out. A thought of my grandmother's hands or a flicker of Montreal with my friend or the weight of a heavy arm, warm and tangible under Flynn's weight. Just a second and then it is gone and in the past it would be followed by hours of sorrow or pulling at memories, right now it is followed by a small smile as I move through the rest of my day. I am comfortable with my grief, if I need it, it is there to remind me, to ground me, but here in year 8, in my journey it is in the peripheral and not in the road straight ahead.

Our First Christmas

In an earlier post on handling the holidays, there was advice on how to take care during this particularly stressful season. Although I believe the list of coping strategies, they were not all authentically mine. I wanted to take this opportunity to post how I coped with the holidays, the first year after Flynn's death.
Flynn was born in May and by the time December came around I believed I was coping with his death and could handle this family- oriented time of year. We had Rhys at home after all and he was three and a half, needing our undivided attention and fully aware of the promise of presents that this season brings.
As I began to prepare for the holidays, with decorations and festivities it became evident to me that something did not feel right. I did not know how to feel happy when we did not have Flynn with us; the year prior on Boxing Day was when we found out that we were pregnant with him, that along with pregnant family and friends surrounding us, the holidays were beginning to feel unbearable.
Our family no longer talked about Flynn; in fact I felt like I discussed him too much as discomfort crossed the face of my loved ones. Although Flynn lived for only a short time; the previous year during my pregnancy with him was how I landmarked my life. The only way to bring up an event was to position it in relation to my pregnancy or his death. I felt that any conversation with me must be depressing and therefore I did not say much, the holiday events became a source of anxiety as I struggled with how to politely smile and nod through conversations without creating despair.
I soon recognized that I could not make Flynn a part of the larger family holiday, I needed to make him a part of our small family's traditions and I went about figuring how to do that.
We have a custom in our family, we get an ornament for our tree when a child is born and I decided that Flynn needed one for our tree. I went about the difficult task of finding one that had meaning, was hopeful but not whimsically proclaiming "Baby's First Christmas!" I did not find anything and when I felt defeated and like it was an impossible task I received the Willow Tree "Angel of Comfort" from my aunt. It was not meant to be an ornament for a tree but when I got it, I knew that was exactly what it would be for our family. I wrote Flynn's name and birth date on the bottom of the figurine and hung it on the tree. I also bought one for my parent's and my husband's parents for their trees.
After finding the ornament I truly believed I would find some peace during the holidays but I did not, in fact I was feeling swallowed, isolated and depressed by my grief. What I really wanted was to be buying gifts for our son, hanging a stocking with his name on it, waking him to find gifts under the tree that his older brother would open for him. I did not know how to reconcile his death and the holidays.
At work they were having a toy drive for children in need, I had not been paying attention and then a friend asked me if I was going to donate to the Angel Tree? I was not sure that I heard her correctly, the Angel Tree? It turns out that was the name of the campaign and you could pick an angel off of the tree with a child's gender and age and buy an appropriate toy.
I went to the tree and the very first angel that I took off said "Boy, age 0" and that is when I knew that this was how I would honour Flynn during the holidays.
Since that holiday seven years ago, this tradition has evolved to include a toy for boys the same ages as ALL my boys and I involve the whole family in picking the gifts. For me it is the way to make meaning of a difficult time of the year and give to families who need a little help believing in the season just as I did the first year after Flynn's death.
I honour Flynn with a gift for a child in need and in turn it makes the holidays meaningful for my family in Flynn's memory.

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.

Helpless

Helpless. The "knock you on your ass", "nothing to grab hold of", most absolute of all feelings. It will drop you to your knees because rarely do you have the foresight to see it coming. In fact I would venture to say that until you have your first experience with Helpless, you don't even know that such a feeling exists. It exposes the fragility of life, the extent of our power, the vulnerability of our belief. At the time that we encounter Helpless, we pray that we never know it again.

Helpless is that feeling that twists your stomach and pounds your chest, that liquefies your limbs and sucks the air out of your lungs. It is the awareness that envelops the reality of eminent death. It is the inexpressable second right before a new life is born. The moment that you are slammed with the knowledge that you have limited ability to change the course of this life. Life and death will proceed and you may not be included in the decision. It is the moment in a life that you realize you may have a plan but it is not your plan.

Loss is a trigger for Helpless. Our vulnerability, our desire, our plan all exposed and changed. It may not be a death that reminds us, it may be a relationship that cannot endure the ups and downs, maybe a job that could not survive the economy, a diagnosis that takes away our health. When there is nothing left that we can do to change the circumstances, we are reminded of that feeling of Helpless.

Today I wanted to remember Helpless so that I could remember that following Helpless, there is clarity, determination and the insatiable need to take claim of your life again.

Anniversary Anxiety

May 3rd.

That is the day, 7 years ago, that Flynn was born and died.


Some Background Here:

Flynn, our second son was born at 9:30pm to a room of doctors, nurses and family, they wanted to send us to McMaster, they thought we had more time, we wanted to hold him for what little time we had.

He was 17 weeks too early and in our city without neo-natal intervention he lived in our arms for a mere hour and a half, dying at 11:05pm.


Every anniversary is different and sometimes there are rituals or traditions that are born out of the memorializing of those important dates.

On Flynn's anniversary I do not work, I do something for me that day. I always take blue orchids out to the cemetary and spend a little time meditating around the past year without him.

With the passing of every year the anniversary has actually caused me more stress. Trying to fit in a day to myself or a trip to the cemetary has become more difficult to work into an increasingly busy schedule. Last year I did not make it out at all and that did not sit well with me so this year I felt that is was necessary to return to my tradition. Of course his anniversary fell on a Sunday that quickly became full of important and almost immovable obligations.

Saturday at 6pm I realized that I did not have the blue orchids for the following day at the cemetary and the only place that I would be able to get them now would be at the grocery florist down the road.

When I got to the store I was relieved to see floral displays with the blue orchids sprinkled throughout but when I asked the girl behind the counter for 6 stems (one to represent each member of our family) my heart sank to hear that there were none left. I begged the girl to allow me to take them out of the arrangements but she could not do that (understandable really). I asked to call the other store further up the road, they did not have any either. I began to feel panicked, this was the most important part of my ritual! Finally I settled on buying a very overpriced arrangement that had 6 stems of the blue orchid in it, it was the best I could do on short notice, but not before I got teary with the girl behind the counter and confided that they were for my dead son at the cemetary, she looked like she heard that every day.

The next morning I had to be at an event for my work, a Walk to Remember, fitting really and I planned to take the whole family to the cemetary after. Landy had not been to the cemetary since the first anniversary. I know that is his way of coping and that we grieve differently but sometimes I wonder what his grief looks like and if he swallows it or embraces it. The event was nice but it ran later than anticipated and before I knew it, there was no way to make it to the cemetary and on to our next commitment.

I could take a separate vehicle and drive 25 minutes out of my way by myself or I could wait and do it on May 4th with Ash (my 4 year old) and Kinley (my 17 month old) with me. Neither seemed an appealing option.

Then something happened, a friend offered to go out with me on May 4th so that I did not have to go alone.

When your child dies before most people meet them, it is hard for that child to have an identity in your life and especially with friends and family. It meant a lot to have her offer to come out to the cemetary.

We went out first thing in the morning, Tonya beside me, Ash and Kinley and Tonya's baby Sadie in the back. Ash is a very chatty child and the 25 minute drive was full of questions:

"Momma, we are going to see Flynn, right?"

"We are going to the cemetary where Flynn is buried actually."

"Why"

"Because that is how I choose to remember him on his birthday"

"Are we going to dig him up?"

"Um, no honey" (Tonya looked pale and slightly traumatized at this point)

"Then why did we bury him?"

"Well that is what we do when someone dies, when their body stops working and it cannot work anymore."


silence.

When we got to the cemetary I asked Ash if he wanted to come out to the stone with me, he had never been to the cemetary before and I thought this may be a good opportunity.

When we got to the stone I read him the inscription:

Flynn, May 3, 2002

"If only for a moment we were blessed to share our love."



"Is he under us right now?"

"Well his body was buried here a long time ago and now we come here to remember him"

"Well I don't think he would like that you are standing on top of him right now."


hmmmm. Fair enough. I kissed my hand and touched the stone, I asked Ash if he wanted to do the same.

"nope"


And that was it. All the worry about the day, the preparation, the anxiety and in five minutes I had an insightful conversation with my 4 year old about his big brother and introduced him to a ritual to remember him. It may not have been the idealized representation of the perfect way to memorialize Flynn's anniversary but it was a real way in this current life to remember him.