Not One More Thing

"When the dam breaks"

I have sat across from many individuals who exemplify someone who "stuffs their grief."  When faced with the difficulties and challenges in life a grief stuffer might head in the opposite direction of the pain, avoid any reminders and push down feelings associated with the loss.  When I sat with someone who stuffed their grief they would usually describe a series of illnesses, difficult relationships, employment problems and tell me they were coping "fine" with their grief. 
If I asked for examples of coping strategies I would likely meet defence mechanisms such as humour or deflection. If I asked about the rituals or ways of memorializing that had taken place following the death of their loved one, I might hear about ceremonies planned for the public and see very few representations of personal moments.
Stuffing grief is a coping mechanism and I felt comfortable sitting with someone who stuffed their grief and discussing strategies of self-care and supports that would help if stuffing no longer worked.  Moreover, through these conversations of self-compassion the grief would start to surface and we might begin to unpack the loss and its impact on the person's life.

I am illustrating my experience of the grief stuffer because I have not known one who looks like this:

Yep, that is me. I look oblivious to my own compacting patterns and defence mechanisms that have been slowly accumulating the grief under my surface and getting ready to erupt. Stuffing grief felt like the antithesis to my life, after all I write about living with grief. Up until very recently, I believed that I was among the first in my social network to acknowledge that loss exists and to face it.  In reality, I acknowledged that death is a part of life and something that we will all face.  Death will represent loss in our lives and we will grieve loved ones whom we miss.  However, I was not facing the multitude of losses that I have experienced in the past year or the impact that they were having.  Each individual experience may not have represented much and possibly I recognized some form of hurt but then I moved forward. In my mind I envision a path of bread crumbs and I am picking them up one at a time eating them, not thinking about how much I have eaten as I continue forward (and since I am gluten free you can see how this vision would lead to pain for me).

So here I am writing this blog about the person who stuffs their grief.  I didn't think it was me but this year has been filled with little BIG things.  They were not all deaths but they were all significant losses for me or people I loved.  There was an impact on me and I did little to face that.
Here are a few examples of how I have been affected:

• My education has been filled with losses - my expectations have not been met or I have not gotten the level of learning I was hoping for.
• Financial independence - I did not realize that my core beliefs would be challenged by not working and having my "own earnings."
• Health - the diagnosis of Fibromyalgia and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome changed my physical and mental health (most likely forever).
• Relationships - I just cannot give what I want to, to the people I care about.
• Friendships - some survive the complexity of graduate school commitments/stress and some don't. That translates into a level of isolation and loneliness that I was not prepared for
• Family - Diagnosis has changed our worldview and while it isn't my health, it is still my heart that hurts knowing that we are left to our faith in medicine combined with a helpless positivity.

Each one in isolation is manageable and that is how I have been coping, picking up each piece as I encounter it, never looking at the entirety of it all together, stuffing it you might say!  Last week I was forced to step back and take in the whole picture of this year's losses.  I could not hold onto one more thing and as a future therapist, I was responsible to more than just myself.  Furthermore, I believe in the role of modelling behaviours that you wish to see in others, with the help of another student I could finally let go.

The first thing I did - sob.  Not for everyone, I recognize.  Let's face it - the gut wrenching, back heaving crying that contorts your face and hurls primitive sounds from your guts is few people's first choice at coping, but it was a start and that was more than I had given myself in a year.  I am only beginning to figure out how to cope and allow for these losses.  Stay tuned as I continue on this journey into self-awareness.

Lunges and Lunch: Guest Post

My lovely friend Stephanie over at Lunges and Lunch has featured me on her blog.  Check out my guest spot about Feeding Grief here: Lunges and Lunch:Guest Post. Have a look around while you are there, I am sure you will love her as much as I do!

xo
Lis

A Lesson in Being Honest

Just over a week ago our friends experienced the death of their precious son.  Our family was so deeply saddened.
This blog is about the conversation that took place between my husband and I when we discussed attending the funeral of this cherished boy and the realizations that came from our own journey with grief:

I checked the website of the funeral home daily looking for information about the funeral service after learning that N had died. When the information was posted I called Landy to let him know.  He said we could talk about it when he got home and I knew it would be hard for him to attend.

Looking back now I realize how anxious I had become by the time we discussed the funeral but at the time I didn't recognize it.

"Are you coming to the funeral with me tomorrow?"

"No I don't think so."

"What! Why not? I cannot believe you. It is important that we show our support to R and K.  Why aren't you coming?"

"I am sorry, I just can't."

"Great, so you are so busy at work that you cannot take time out to show our friends you care? I don't know what to say."

"I am sorry."

Our evening ended with us both feeling hurt and disappointed.

On the day of the funeral, I stared blankly into my closet.  I had no idea what to wear. The only thing I could think of was the outfit that I wore at Flynn's funeral; an outfit I borrowed from R.  I thought about our friends and could not imagine the pain this day would bring them.

Driving to the funeral home I realized that I had to walk in alone, I would not know anyone.  I have gone to visitations and funerals alone before, I wasn't sure why this felt different.  I sat in the parking lot for a few minutes and tried to mentally prepare for this service.  How do you prepare for the funeral of an eleven year old?

The chapel was full, more than full and I sat watching the video slide show of a short beloved life.  I could not take my eyes off of it for fear of seeing the room full of tears, feeling my own heart congested with sadness for this family.  The three pews for the family sat empty for ten minutes maybe more after the service had begun and I thought it must be so tough to come into this room.  I began to realize that my anxiety was rising, I was feeling suffocated and strangely nauseous.  I wasn't sure if it was the crowded room or the emotionality of this congregation of grievers.  Then it hit me, I have not been to a child's funeral since my son died and I am here alone ~ I don't know how to do this alone.

I left right after the service. I turned the radio off in the car and drove in silence to the reception. What was going on inside of me?  I was feeling abandoned and angry.  Why was I reacting so strongly?  Landy had his reasons for not coming; it is not my place to force him, right? I am not a Grief Pusher. Anyway, I had tried to force him through guilt and it had not worked (I am not perfect).  But I had told him to come for our friends and that was not what I needed.  There it was, the truth.  I needed him to be there with me because this was hard and I did not want to do it alone.  Instead I told him that he had let down our friends.

When Landy got home he asked about R and K, I know he felt heartbroken for them too.

I told him how I felt at the funeral and on my way to the reception.  I shared with him my insight and the realization that I had not told him what I needed.

"I would have been there if I would have known you needed me to be.  I feel foolish that I didn't realize that.  It was really hard for me to be there too and maybe that is why I couldn't go."

"I know.  I wish I could have been more honest with myself.  "

Forever in so many hearts. Never to be forgotten ~ for N

10 Years ~ A Photo Diary

Today was the ten year anniversary of Flynn's birth and death.  Even typing it seems unreal.  Although I kept a familiar routine to mark this day, I decided to approach the blog differently.  I wanted to do a photo diary so that I could document the day both literally and visually.

May 3rd, 2012

We have a box.

We keep it in the farthest corner of our closet and it is filled with memorabilia, such as: pictures, a pregnancy journal, a baby book, Flynn's quilt, etc.

It also has all the notes and cards that we received following his death.  Today I took them all out and read every one.  They are reminders of how far the pain of his death reached. Some of the note writers are no longer alive.  I hope Carlos, my Aunt and my Grandma are with Flynn now.

After reading the cards, I reached into the box and pulled out the gown and cap that Flynn wore that day.  I took out the quilt that he was wrapped in.  I touched them and smelled them and remembered how it felt to just hold him.

I looked through all the pictures that were taken the day that he was born. The family photo with me holding our tiny baby, while Flynn clung tightly to Landy's index finger.  There were photos that caught the look of despair on my parent's faces and some that captured the tears that wove a sombre path over the round of our cheeks.  I remember the words that I whispered just before they took me away for surgery.

"Remember, Mommy loves you always."

After putting away the box, I continued with my day by driving to a florist where I could pick up a bouquet of blue orchids. I buy them every year after they were abundantly splayed in a breathtaking arrangement on the top of Flynn's white sateen casket at his funeral.

The florist wanted to make them into a complicated bouquet.  I told her that it was not necessary; I was going to the cemetery with them.  She insisted that she must do something, so I let her put some baby's breath in with the orchids and tie it with a deep blue ribbon.  She told me it must be sad going to the cemetery.  I thought about it for a second and then replied,

"Not after 10 years, now it is a relief, I am actually looking forward to it, I am happy even." 

She starred at me.  "Even after all these years it can be hard. You mean that it is sad, right?"

I nodded obligingly.  It wasn't the day to argue.

I took the country roads out to the cemetery.  I love the drive; it is picturesque, with open fields and trees lining the winding road.  The entrance to the cemetery is flanked by an old chapel that is full of character and epitomizes the century old cemetery.

I followed the winding lane until I found our familiar spot, tucked away on a little hill where his place is marked in stone.

I spent time cleaning the area up, cringing with guilt that it had become so overgrown and neglected. Then I just sat there and was.  I don't remember thinking about anything in particular, I just felt content to be there in that space with him.
I was not ready to leave him entirely, so I took a scenic walk to clear my head and meditate on the day.

 

The warm weather made my stroll even more enjoyable.  The spring blooms were spectacular and the vibrant colours were awe inspiring.
I ended my stroll at a vegetarian restaurant where I enjoyed vegan sushi, a new personal favourite.

I had one more thing that I wanted to do to mark ten years of life without Flynn.  I have wanted to do it for a long time and it seemed fitting to make it happen today.

There was a serendipitous moment when the tattoo artist told me that his own infant daughter had died 3 years ago.  I told the artist the meaning behind the word and the reason that today was the day for me to get it.  He showed me the two tiny feet tattooed on the back of his hand and I was thankful I had sat in his chair today.



My day ended with me tucking my three boys into bed for the night before sitting down to write this anniversary blog.  I uploaded all the pictures from the day and chose my favourite ones.
As I examined the pictures of my orchid bouquet I noticed that amongst all the vibrant purple and turquoise blooms there was a single bloom that was larger than all the rest with colours that were just a little brighter than the surrounding flowers.

It filled me with joy; 10 years' worth.

Just What a Heavy Heart Needed

A night at the symphony.
When I first received the invitation I hesitated.  I had been blue all week, was it really a good idea to expose myself to the raw, consuming power of orchestra music? I decided I had better decline and so I countered the offer with "music can trigger my emotions and right now I am sad, I am not sure an orchestra will help."
My wise friend was already aware of my fragility and she simply responded with "I am the same way, so we can be sad together."



She also suggested that we dress up and treat ourselves to an evening of feeling special.  It was the perfect remedy. 

When we sat in our seats in the little country theatre and the conductor announced that the performance was dedicated to uplifting, positive music, I knew that coming to the symphony was the right choice.  We listened to music from Mozart, Bernstein and Dvorák.  My personal favourite of the night was "Overture to Le Nozze Di Figaro" by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; it is such a whimsical piece of music and one that reminds me of creating music back when I was in the high school orchestra.

When the concert was finished we decided that an evening at the symphony was not complete without wings and fries at a local pub.

I didn't know how much I needed the symphony, pub food and a good friend until I was lucky enough to have all three.
Thanks Steph for providing comfort to a heavy heart.