Puddle Jumping

 Sometimes I wonder if my blog simplifies life into a succession of losses? While some losses are more predictable in nature, others are shock provoking. Then there are the neither anticipated nor catastrophe losses; the kind that leave you affected but lacking societal recognition. In terms of defined grief reactions this is sometimes categorized under disenfranchised grief. These types of losses are often experienced in an imposed isolation. Sequestered to the shadows to accommodate the discomfort of the many. Here are the grievers of miscarriage, suicide, divorce and separation, death of a pet, to name just a few. In actuality any loss can become disenfranchised grief dependent on how empathetic and validating your community (friends and family) is to your experience of loss.

To clarify, I do not go through life puddle jumping from one loss to the next and I am most definitely a glass half full person, however, we are exposed to more loss then we are allowed* to discuss or experience. Our losses like our joys enrich our time spent on this planet and enable us to grow introspectively and spiritually.  It can be a detriment to our personhood if we are encouraged to process this in solitude or nullify the pain of our struggle.

*by allowed I mean both what is recognized as acceptable or common experiences of grief (and what is not), in addition to the permission that is bestowed on us through cultural and societal norms.

So what the hell is this blog about anyway?  I am climbing down from my soap box resting on top of our death denying and loss denying society to explain.

I am in the last leg of my Master of Social Work degree and starting a new chapter in my career. With that comes an end to more than a decade of pursuing post secondary education.  Inevitably my degree will and already has had an impact on my identity - how I see myself and how I am viewed - while mostly positive I do still struggle with launching professionally from here.  It may not be easy to see the loss entangled in the accomplishment of obtaining a degree but they are there.  I have had "little losses" along the way, some examples: leaving a practicum that I loved, missing daily interactions with fellow students and friends, struggling with continuously changing schedules from one semester to the next and ending sessions with clients.  It may be part of the landscape inherent in the life of a graduate student and I am sure it can be argued that this is what life is all about, managing and navigating little losses but all the same I have found it hard.

What I am experiencing is the accumulation of these little losses - professionally, scholastically and personally - and it feels familiar and at times sad.  In this current experience with navigating loss I have been met by ambivalence, anger and misunderstanding but rarely empathy. Maybe we are all too caught up with our own stuff but I have been surprised at the absence of empathic gestures and communication. Correction, I am not surprised having been bereaved I already knew that the world fails to be empathetic, I am disappointed.  Out of disappointment I am reminded to be mindful of what I evaluate to be relevant, important and valid and in actuality I should avoid evaluating all together.

People come to every interaction with a myriad of stressors and experiences that influence how they respond and engage - empathy may be the starting point of forming a connection.

What I do not know

I cannot write about the tragedy in Connecticut.
Writing a blog about grief and as a bereaved parent, it might seem like a natural place to find such a blog, but it won't happen here.  
I haven't watched the news or followed the story that has unfolded in Connecticut.  I know the basics of what happened and that is difficult enough to reconcile.  I cannot browse through the images of the parents or the children or the teachers that were so tragically affected.  I do not know how to hold the pain of this story and it is not MY story.

I have no idea how these families feel.
I do not know their pain.
I do not understand their losses.

The only thing I do know is that their grief will be endured for a lifetime. 

Life with the Bereaved

Recently my partner and I had a very candid discussion about grief and death as it is experienced from parents of the same child. The conversation took place over text - a "safe" medium to have one of those "tough conversations."  I asked his permission to post the conversation because I believe it is a representation of how differenly we have coped with and managed parenthood after our son's death.  We recently acknowledged the 10th anniversary of Flynn's death and in this discussion we are preparing to attend a holiday memorial service that we go to every year.
My partner had expressed ambivalence about attending the event prior to this conversation starting.

Himself:
What time are we going to the Tree of Bright Stars today?  Are we helping with the set up?

Me:
You don't have to come tonight.

Himself:
That is not why I was asking.  I was curious as to when we were going?
Himself:
For kid feeding purposes.

Me:
At 6 and you can stay home, you have made it clear lately that you don't want to go.

Himself:
At some point we are going to need to start the mending process again.  And I'm realizing that it is not going to be easy.
Himself:
I am not a fan of the gathering that is the Tree of Bright Stars. But I'm not opposed to the meaning of it.  I want to be there for you more than anything, even if it is not required for my own growth/healing with regard to Flynn.  I know I have missed  the underlying message before but I'm trying to correct that.  So even if my presence is  needed for your support  then I want to come.  Does that make sense?

Me:
Yes and I am not broken or less healed just because I acknowledge Flynn's life and death in a community that understands the enormity of this loss.  To be honest I am and was very angry with you and our therapist when you suggested that I was anything less than coping with my grief because as a bereaved parent I am overprotective. It is ignorance about coping and loss that makes it difficult for people to be bereaved and grow. As for personnal growth, the continued and very minute amount of memorializing that I do for me and at times this family is a testament to the resilience as a result of our son's life and death.

Himself:
Well said.

Me:
Don't come to support me, that statement tells me that you don't see yourself as a bereaved parent. I am not just a dead child's mother.

Himself:
Ok. Its apparent that I am very wrong. And obvious that you intend on continually painting me with the "he's in denial" brush.
Himself:
I am sorry that you view me this way.  I don't understand it.

Me:
I do not think you are in denial.  I have no idea how you feel, but your son died too. I am not sure why you see your role in memorializing events during the holidays as supporting me?

Himself:
Good point. But misunderstood. Maybe by me as well.  I guess I don't really know why I don't like attending the Tree festival. Or others like it.  I suppose if I really look at it...I have a distaste for grief.  Not sure really why, its not that I don't think people should be grieving.  Maybe as you have already suggested, I don't like facing it.  Mainly because it sucks.

Me:
Yes it does. What I know is that it does not suck any less if you do not face it.  Eventually you will reconcile the grief and not usually when it is convenient or even supported by those around you.

Himself:
Another good point.
Himself:
I will come tonight.  For the cookies.

Me:
I love you. Regardless if you come tonight or not.

Himself:
Thanks.  I really did need to hear that. I love you too.  Very much.

It must be hard to live with a bereaved parent, let alone two. It is the conversations and all the moments inbetween that make it possible to walk this journey together and differently.

Asking For Help (Part Two)

This blog was originally posted on Pilgrimage to Diagnosis earlier this year.  The blog was a raw, genuine exploration into how easy or difficult it can be to recognize your need for help.  This blog remains relevant today and especially after recognizing in my last post that I am having difficulty processing all of my thoughts and feelings.  If you read this when it was originally posted then this is a similar but different foray into vulnerability.  If this is the first time reading it then please enjoy!


When I began writing blogs it was out of a desire to normalize my experience of death and grief by reaching out and receiving support from a virtual community of grievers.  It would be accurate to say that blogging was a form of therapy for me. It is also a fair assessment that this blog has been a way to convey messages to people I love and care for, from a distance rather then engaging in a discussion face to face.
In blogging about my life of  learning to cope with and manage my grief, I truly believed I embodied transparency.  At times I was capable of revealing some intimate details about my grief journey following the death of Flynn.  Other times I was simply pondering a thought or expressing an opinion to an elusive virtual community. 
Moreover, I was keeping my world at arms length.

Remaining anonymous to my own life.

There is an ease to conveying your feelings from an empty dining room table.
When you do not have to vocalize your emotions to another face that may react to what you have to say; you can say anything.
My ability to be open about my grief has been conditional on doing it from behind a computer screen.  In reality open only meant sharing the tip of the iceberg; the remaining 90% of my experience of grief and loss has been buried far beneath the surface, untouchable.
Regardless of how much I have researched grief and bereavement or learned how to strengthen my therapeutic abilities, I have not found the "solution" to living a life free of loss. There is no way to "fix it."  Consider that for a second.  I cannot fix something that feels broken - there is helplessness or powerlessness.  I may have been able to tell clients that living with grief is a journey that remains with you for a lifetime but I am not sure whether I heard that message myself.  

For the past several weeks I have been participating in a "Use of Self" class where we were asked to examine how we (as clinicians) impact the therapeutic process.  This exploration of self has not happened in a vaccuum, life has continued to happen too and sometimes all this reflectiveness has "taken its toll."  Peeling back the layers of loss and examining the health of my coping strategies has created a roller coaster of emotion. I have tried to laugh.  Mostly I have cried, cried and cried some more. I have had to talk about how I have been feeling, because it has been impossible to ignore that I have been feeling. 
Admittedly, stoicism is an inherited trait.  Even in my virtual openness I am unwilling to examine the depth of my grief.  I have been stuck in perpetual discomfort at the challenge of being vulnerable (a position that I usually always  usually run from - and  h  e   r   e   -  I  -  g   o  - a  g  a  i  n). 

I have always encouraged people to recognize their limits and honour their emotions.  I have challenged family, friends and clients to see a request for help as a sign of strength.  My entire life, I have been gauging my strength on my ability to push through, buck up and carry on.  What a contradiction!  There is a need for the "push through it" mentality, but there is also a cost.  

In revealing myself  I would caution individuals from jumping to the conclusion that I am stuck in my grief or that I am not coping in a "healthy" way.  This post is serving as my vehicle for a deeper level of honesty, a revealing portrayl of a bereaved mother. 

I may need to get comfortable with asking for help.  For now, one day at a time.

"...love - any love - reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness." ~ Cesare Pavese

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.