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.

A sense of Pride

While other countries report that the Vancouver Olympics have been filled with controversy, tragedy and technical difficulties, my family and our nation knows that they have been a source of inspiration, a daily touchstone and a healthy and modest dose of pride.  For me the Olympics have been a welcome surprise that has transcended barriers in age, opinion and interest for our family.  In fact the Olympics has provided the first time that our family has shared a sense of excited awe day in and day out for almost two weeks!  I do not remember an instance in the past ten years, when, as a family, we have engaged, discussed and watched something where we were all equally invested.

 It is difficult if not virtually impossible to find something that a 2, 5 and 10 year old child would find commonly interesting and yet an Olympic sport has had them all sitting attentively invested in a national outcome.  In fact the 5 and 10 year old have taken it upon themselves to teach the 2 year old the Canadian cheer.  At any given time around our house you can hear choruses of AAHHHH, OHHHH Canada Go in voices ranging from broken toddler to giddy kindergartener to maturing kid and even sometimes the odd adult.  As a parent it is the type of comradery that you can only wish for but rarely see come to fruition and yet here in my living room I watch three boys hush as the puck drops or a snowboarder jumps and cheer for their country to bring home the gold.

It is not just our children’s eagerness for metal counts and Olympic greatness that keeps the family attuned to the events and news of the Canadian teams.  As adults, my husband and I are also invested in the national pride, the dreams of the Olympians, stories of success and the overcoming of obstacles.  We are acutely aware that this Olympics has brought us together as a family with a sense that we are watching history being made.  As a family our own moments are being created simultaneously as we root for team Canada.  We are all there to cheer, to hope and to dream of the possibilities that lie ahead for our Olympians and for Canada. 

The winter Olympics has given us many teaching moments with our children about challenges, success and even tragedy and installed in us a sense of pride, a national spirit that is invaluable in the building of identity.  In our family room, together in a common goal, we are able to discuss and encourage our children to dream, to strive for greatness and then show them that it can be achieved on a world platform.  The winter Olympics has provided a bond between siblings and as parents a bridge of communication and common interest to our children.  A place where our quest for gold is shared with a nation, creating memories on the west coast of Canada and on a couch in our family room where it will be remembered for many years to come.

This blog was inspired by encouragement from a fantastic friend, Nicola, check out her blog at http://mammyp.blogspot.com

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.

I am Sorry

“I am sorry”

Whether at the hospital, a visitation, the funeral, or following a conversation surrounding death, this phrase is one that grieving people often encounter. For some, “I am sorry” is meaningful and received with the good will that is intended, but for others this statement feels like an incomplete or insincere sentiment. Of course it is not for lack of sincerity on the part of the person expressing their sympathy, the griever’s reaction or feeling toward “I am sorry” is usually due to numerous people using this phrase to express sympathy and the ambiguous nature of “I am sorry”.

The word sorry if defined by a dictionary can mean “to be grieved or sad” but it can also be an expression of regret. When sorry is used in conjunction with “I am” we do not typically think of the sentiment meaning “I am sad” we think of it meaning “I am regretful” or “I am apologizing”. This can be very confusing to a bereaved person as statements are often taken very literally and are not interpreted but taken as they are conventionally used. So “I am sorry for your loss” can be literally interpreted to mean “I regret your loss” or “I apologize for your loss” which places ownership for death that is not possibly your responsibility.

I have heard people counter to the well intentioned sentiment “What are you sorry for?” leaving the message giver feeling misinterpreted, defensive and often hurt and the receiver of the message often feeling the same.

So why do we continue to say “I am sorry” to comfort someone who has experienced a death or trauma? Possibly because as a community this phrase has been used for generations to express sympathy, we have heard our families use “I am sorry” when they run up against grief? We could feel uncomfortable with death and grief and use the common expression to deter from our own feelings surrounding death or it could be that we just do not know what else to say?

There are other options to “I am sorry.” Using words that sincerely communicate your feelings like “I am sad for you,” “I cannot imagine what you are feeling right now,” or “I hope you are gentle with yourself and take the time that you need.”

People that are experiencing grief really need to feel supported and sincere emotion and sentiment are important to them. It is okay to say “I do not know what to say,” if that is truly how you feel. And if “I am sorry” is your statement of comfort, that is okay too, just some food for thought next time you encounter grief or death.