Some days are like that

Today is one of those "raw" days where I am not far from tears. 

I guess part of it is that yesterday marked a full month of having a nasty cough (so hard and long it makes me lose bladder control!) and congestion, and today I woke up incredibly weary with my eyelashes stuck shut in places - a weakened body leaving the soul bare and vulnerable. I'll be heading to the walk-in clinic this afternoon to deal with the physical side of things. 

Another part is that last night I learned of the sudden death of one of my baby's favorite famous people - comedian John Pinette - Saturday in Pittsburgh. Our best Christmas memory of our little girl is Christmas 2011 when we gave her tickets to see John in person - she was thrilled that we would give that to her, and I knew she would be, so I was prepared with my camera, and took a photo of her moment of realization.  

The moment of understanding what the
tickets were for (Christmas 2011)

Within a minute after I snapped the photo, she realized that we got her the tickets because we had seen him as a family the previous year, and she was not able to go even though we'd gotten her a ticket - and she had been so disappointed ... and now we were giving her another chance. She burst into tears of gratitude. 

And the camera was forgotten. She was in my arms.

And finally, I've been thinking of her a lot more lately since our church welcomed a young pastor and her husband to our church leadership team. Their last name is Willis (ours is Gillis) and their youngest child's name - - is Ariella. And her parents pronounce the first part of her name "AR" - the same way we pronounce our own Arielle's name - instead of "AIR" the way most people do.  FREAKY. The first time I heard them talking to her, I was mesmerized.  And Sunday morning, I was watching this little girl (she's about two) reacting to the music, interacting with her mom, talking to her dad, and eventually sleeping in the pew and tossing and fidgeting in her sleep. Her activity level reminded me of our own little firecracker. I found my eyes getting all watery just watching this little bundle of energy. 

I don't really like feeling the way I have been - perhaps because somewhere, in the mists of my early memory, is a voice that says you are only allowed to cry just so long and then you have to "get over it." Of course, that is a lie. Some days are just like that. There is nothing wrong with grieving; it is a sign that you love someone so deeply that you miss that person's presence now that he or she is no longer here. 

So I go back to my fail-safe position: taking one breath at a time. And I look after myself. And I wait as the billows wash over me, knowing they will pass. 

And they will pass. But even that doesn't mean they'll never come again. 

All I need to do is live in THIS moment, breathe THIS breath and not worry about the next one, or the next time, or to say to myself that I "can't wait" until such-and-such happens - or even to wish that I could go back and have another chance to do it over again. It is enough to just remain in today, this hour, this minute ... to simply be. It is Life's lesson for the times that are rough and raw, as well as for the times that are pleasant and happy: embrace the now and do not let the past or the future rob you of it. It is, after all, all that we have.

Living Grief

My dad had a stroke in January 1989, when he was 63. I was 28 and had just learned that I was pregnant with our first child. Neither he nor my mom knew that I was pregnant.

The stroke changed him; it changed who he was. He'd always prided himself on not showing his emotions to anyone else. He lost about half the use of his left arm and leg, which was bad enough, but what he lost most was his emotional control, and his ability to sing. Slowly, over the next three years, he lost more and more of his memory. My children never knew the man that I knew growing up. I grieved that they'd never benefit from his wisdom, or hear his comedic timing when he told a joke, or see him "in action" when he was pranking one of my uncles or acting the fool with people who came to the house.

Mom and Dad - 1984

 
In fact, I felt abandoned - like I had lost my father when he had the stroke - because before me was this man I didn't know, in many ways the very opposite of the one I knew. He was impulsive, unreserved, would blurt things out no matter where he was or who he was with. 

It took me several months to work through the sadness I felt. And then, one day, my mother got sick and had to be hospitalized for a couple of weeks. She was afraid to leave him on his own and she asked me if I would stay with him. 

So I did. 

In those two weeks, I determined to get to know the man in front of me, to know what he was like.... and I learned that there were things about this fellow who used to be my dad, that I never knew about my dad when I was growing up. I learned how soft-hearted he was; he would burst into tears if he was moved. I appreciated how frustrated he was that his body wouldn't do what he wanted it to do, that his voice couldn't make notes anymore - he had been able to sing, rich deep bass notes. He could enjoy good music still, but that he couldn't sing the notes tore at him. I remember just stopping him as he was berating himself for not being able to get dressed after he used the washroom, and I just reached down without looking and buttoned his pants and buckled his belt for him. The gratitude in his eyes is not something I'll forget.

I learned that he could cook!! He always let my mom cook when I was growing up. He had the most wonderful belly-laugh and he laughed .... a lot. And his love came shining through. All those things I thought I had lost were still there. They just took a different form. Those two weeks gave me a gift: the gift of my father without all the defenses he put up over the years to hold himself in check. It showed me what he was really like inside, and truth be told, I liked this guy just as much as I had loved my pre-stroke dad.


As time went on, though, my mother began to suspect that he had a memory problem. 

He'd always had a problem remembering people's names; we used to joke about him calling someone "Whassisname" ... but this was different. Someone would ask a question and he'd start to answer, get confused, and look to my mother to get direction. She'd answer the question for him. 

Finally, because he wouldn't make an appointment for himself with a doctor, Mom made one and took him in. It was October 1, 1993.

The doctor asked him three questions: 
(1) Do you know where you are? (after looking around ... "Uhhh, hospital?")
(2) Do you know what day it is? ("Wednesday...")
(3) Do you know what year it is? (He looked at my mother. He didn't know.)

The doctor sent him for an immediate CT scan. It revealed that he had widespread brain cancer. Inoperable. He had a matter of weeks left. 

They set up a hospital bed at home and for a month he stayed in that bed using a bedpan. Then he developed a bedsore and was admitted to hospital. To palliative care. 

From that point, he went downhill fast. I visited as often as I was able. My mother almost never left his side. 

Week to week, I could see the deterioration as the cancer continued to spread unhindered. He lost his appetite. Pain - deep, nerve pain - wracked his body and the doctors prescribed morphine. He lost weight. The pain was so bad that he would moan and cry out for his "Mama" - who had died in 1974. He regressed. He didn't recognize his children. It was so very hard to watch ... the only parent I had that I absolutely knew loved me unconditionally ... and I saw him slipping away and there was nothing I could do to bring him back. 

I knew that he was nearing the end. The morphine injections weren't doing the trick so they put him on a slow drip. Gradually they increased the dose. 

I grabbed his hand and held it, about four days (as it turned out) before he passed away, and I told him the story of the first, last, and only time he had taken me fishing. I told him how he had taken me in the boat, how he put the bait on the hook, how he taught me to cast and to "set" the hook in the fish's mouth, and how he taught me to reel the fish in. And then how I strutted back into the house and told my mom that I'd caught the biggest fish. "You never took me fishing again, Dad, and I don't blame you. Not one bit. And I just wanted to apologize to you. I'm so sorry, Dad." 

He smiled at me, looking at me like I was some kind soul he didn't know but appreciated nonetheless.  "Tell me another story," he said dreamily.

Those were the last words I heard him speak. 

I never wanted him back after he left. Not if it meant that he would go back to being in that much pain. The first image in my mind when I learned that he had passed was of him striding confidently through a meadow of flowers, swinging his arms in the prime of life, singing in that deep bass voice at the top of his lungs with all the joy I knew he had in him - happy and free of pain.
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~

They say that time heals all wounds. In a sense I guess it does. At least the callouses get a little thicker. I won't say that the hurt goes away, because it doesn't. At times it is just as fresh as the first day. There are times I want so much for him to hold me in his arms and tell me one more time that everything is going to be okay. I miss him so much! 

I comfort myself now with the fact that the granddaughter that never knew him, the one who told me how much she wanted to meet him someday because I'd talked about him so much that she thought she knew him, is now keeping company with him. It helps a bit to know that they have each other to spend time with, while we wait to join them. 

For us it will be a lifetime. For them - they will have just gotten there when we arrive.

In Five Months

Five months ago today, our lives turned upside down. I realized it after church today, as I was doing something in the foyer that made me try to think about what the date was today ... and it hit me. Exactly what was happening that exact moment five months ago? Police were knocking on our door and talking to my husband and my oldest daughter, telling them of the accident that took the life of your youngest daughter, at the age of 21 years. 

After they delivered their news, answered any questions my loved ones had, and then left, hubby and daughter looked at each other in misery. "Someone has to tell Mom," my daughter said. 

My husband nodded... and sighed. "I'll do it."

From that day until this, I can't count the number of times I have grieved her not being here. The sense of loss will intrude at the most unexpected times and in the most unpredictable ways, regardless of where I am or what I'm doing. However, I also can't count the number of times I've been so incredibly grateful (and perhaps a little ashamed of feeling that way) that the anguish and the stress of never knowing where she was or if she was safe ... is over. And yes, I have been and continue to be overjoyed that the place where I know she is ... IS safe, IS full of laughter and peace, IS amazingly complex and ever new. She is happy there; I know it.

The pain - when it happens - is just as fresh as when it was new. The ache of missing her is something that I've come to accept - usually - as the "new normal." Yet - in a very real way - she is more a part of this family now than when she was here. We feel her presence in so many little things, in the raising of an eyebrow, in a saying, in a song. We see the antics of our kitten, Loki, who was born on the day of her funeral, as he prances around the house and is so easily distracted by a sound or a flash of light or a moth flittering in the room ... and we say how much like her he is. 

I still long to hear her telling me she loves me. I still want to hear her laugh, to feel her great huge bear hug lifting me off my feet - something that unnerved me at the time. I miss her yelling with excitement, like the time we went to Magnetic Hill and felt the vehicle rolling up the hill ... she wanted to do it again and again (and folks, she was 19 at the time...) She had us all in stitches! I miss her jokes, her zany faces and funny voices that she'd do. I miss her "fake-singing" so her friends didn't feel bad about their singing voices. She had such a lovely singing voice - I wish I could have heard it more. 

Arielle in the summer of 2010

At the same time, I feel her with me, encouraging me, cheering me on in my studies. I hear her voice in my memory sometimes when I get out of the van to go into my place of work, calling out as she did whenever she was in the vehicle, "HELP SOMEONE!" (Or if I was taking a class, "LEARN SOMETHING!") 

In five months I've learned how to function without her physical presence. I've learned so many other things too. I have learned how very many people love and care about me (who knew? certainly not me, at least not until she passed), how many lives she touched when she was here (and is still touching even now), and why she cared so much about people ... all kinds of people. I've been inspired by her zest for life, by her incredible rock-firm faith, and by her ability - in the short month between the time she realized that God was real and the time she went to see Him in person - to share that faith with people and make an impact in their lives.  

I've also learned (all over again) that it's okay to feel what I feel and not apologize for feeling it. That there is no "right way" to grieve and that some days are more "raw" than others, and some days are downright mundane. I know some people treat me as though I'm fragile every time they see me, and you know, I could have been having an almost normal day - not even "thinking about it" - until they treated me that way and then ... depending on how close to the surface my grief is, I'm either suddenly a basket case or I'm irritated ... or I just smile and wave, and let the lady doing the "Oh you poor thing" thing DO her thing (because she seems to enjoy thinking that she's making me feel better), and then walk away. On my "good days" I know that I'm not responsible for her actions; she is. And she isn't responsible for mine; I am. On the "bad days" ... just the sight of snow falling will put me in tears.

And it's all okay. It's all perfectly fine. Feelings (as I've said before) are transient (temporary) states of being that are designed to tell us things, and it's important to pay attention to the messages they give us, and to be kind to ourselves along the way. I've been paying attention and dealing with things as they come along. Part of that is keeping up with my studies: she was so proud of me for going back to school. "You'll make an awesome counsellor, Mom."

And in another five months ... I'll be ready to start another semester at grad school, and be that much closer to doing what she knew all along that I'd be good at - because after all, she kept telling me to help someone.

Blink of an eye

Blink.

December 18, 1991 - "Get a trauma blanket in here. Let's see if we can raise a vein."  .... "Ma'am, can you make a fist?" .... "Okay the IV is in - let's get some Tagamet in there to stop the nausea..." ... "You were dehydrated, Judy. Badly. We'll keep you on liquids for a few days. You'll need someone to look after you when we discharge you from hospital." 

Blink.

July 16, 1992 4:10 am - "Puuuush!! One more big push!" ... "How did you DO that?" .... "Honey, you were amazing."  (A baby cries in the corner of the room). "Welcome to the outside, Arielle!" ... 

Blink.

1995 - In church - "I am sallllty, I am sallllty, I am salllty, Oh Lord..."

Blink.
 
Summer 1997 - "You getting ANOTHER five Mr. Freezies? Don't these kids have homes to go to?" ... "But Mom, they're thirsty..." 

Blink.

June 2000 - "It's okay honey. Lots of people repeat a grade. You'll do all that much better next year."

Blink.

March 2002 - "Mrs. D____, we need to talk to you about some bullying that's been going on." ... "Sweetie, it's not okay that people are calling you those names. We need to stop them from doing it to you and stop them from doing it to anyone else too." ...

Blink.

October 2005 - "Well of course she passed the test; she's not stupid! You gave it to her in a quiet room with no distractions! Give it to her in a noisy room and she'd fail it!" .... "What do you mean she's just lazy! She knocks herself out every night doing homework. She just doesn't know what parts to pay attention to!" 

Blink. 

November 2006 - "No, I wasn't aware that she skipped school today. Yes, we'll have a conversation with her." .... "You want to go to the Village AGAIN?  I'm not sure those kids are good to hang around with..." ... 

Blink.

May 2007 - "Is this Arielle's dad? Um, I think you better come pick her up. Someone gave her some 180-proof and she's falling down and throwing up."  ... "So, how does it make you feel?" "AWful. I never wanna do that again." ... "Good." 

Blink.

February 2010 - "We had a fight and K___ kicked B____ out. I left with him. We have nowhere to go. I don't know what to do, Dad."  .... "If they stay here we at least know where she is." ... "Dear God, where did we go wrong?".... 

Blink.

September 2012 - "Mom. [sob]. They turned me back at the border and they made C___ go back to Michigan. Can you and Dad come and get me?" ... 

Blink. 

May 2013 - "Honey, we can't do it anymore. We can't stand the lying and the stealing, the not knowing where you are. Pick up your stuff because this is it. You can't come back home." ...

Blink. :'( 

June 2013 - "Yeah, we're leaving. There's nothing for us here anymore. We're going out West." ... "We'll keep in touch..." ... "Text me."

Blink.

July 16, 2013 - "I got the job, Mom!!"... 

Blink. 

September 18, 2013 - "You're never gonna believe this Mom. .... God touched me. I know He's real. .... I used to be afraid of being alone. And I'm not anymore. It's like I have this Friend who never leaves me." 

Blink.

September 19, 2013 - "Well she kicked me out, I have nowhere to live but in my car..." 

Blink.

October 5, 2013 - "Oh Mom. Don't give up your Thanksgiving spirit. Look at me, I'm living in my car ... but I'm thankful for my family, for what I do have. Just don't give up on Thanksgiving, Mom."

Blink.

October 23, 2013 - 1:10 pm - "Honey, ... I ... don't know how to start this conversation.  The police were just here at the house.  There's been an accident ... a head-on collision. ...."

Blink.

Anticipating Life

Every year I hear them, usually in April (and if I'm lucky, in March.)

The first time it always arrests whatever it is I'm doing. If I'm talking, I stop in mid-sentence just to listen. And I smile. 

What I find myself doing in the extremely long month of February (only that long because it is so very cold) is dreaming of hearing their voices again: the billing and cooing of the mourning doves. 

They started nesting around here about 10 years ago and they come back year after year and raise their young. It is one of the very first signs of spring for me, long before robins nest on our property (because our property, though treed and replete with areas to nest in, also is the litter-box of all of the neighborhood cats. So-o, not prime real estate for robins!)  And before I go any further, let me explain that for me it does not matter what the calendar says the first day of spring is. I live in the Maritimes, and for me, that means that spring takes its good sweet time getting here: any time between mid April and mid May usually. The temperatures need to be consistently above 10º Celsius (for my American friends, that's 50º Fahrenheit) for at least two weeks for it to be "Spring" for me.

Photo "Two Mourning Doves" courtesy of
Liz Noffsinger at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

More and more often as February turns to March and beyond, I find myself listening each morning for the contented cooing of the mourning doves, singing soothing songs of hope, devotion and peace to my discouraged, apathetic and stressed-out heart. I do it without even realizing it. They come back to this area while winter still has me in its gnarly, sadistic grasp and they speak reassurance that warmer times will come. And I so need that reassurance: even though my brain knows that spring always does come, my heart comes to the brink of despair every year.  It is not enough to hear someone say that they have seen pussy-willows, or that they've seen robins hopping about. These things are hearsay and I've always been about first-hand experience.

And it is not enough for me to simply survive winter, to grit my teeth and bear the cold, the bulky clothing, the slippery footing, hoping that it will eventually pass. I must know that I know that I know that there will be an end to it. Not to know it intellectually, but deep in my inner being. The song of the mourning doves accomplishes that. It gives me that assurance which carries me through to the time when spring actually does come.

And every day that I don't hear them, there is a vague disappointment - not a conscious one to be sure, at least not often - but there nonetheless. And my heart has to process the lack of reassurance and reset its hope again for hearing that sound, the harbinger of spring even while winter thinks it "has" me. 

"Maybe tomorrow," my heart says to itself. "Maybe tomorrow they will be here."

And so I live today, this 24-hour period, accepting what is. And I live in anticipation of dove-song, knowing it means that life and green and warmth will come again. And soon.

What it takes

I had a rather interesting experience the other night.

I got a chance to role-play as a counselor with someone who is also studying to be a counselor, just as I am; she played the role of the client - which for me was quite the thing because she has more experience than I do at being in a counseling role!

Since I am bound by counselor-client confidentiality, I can't tell anyone what we discussed. However, I can talk about something that happened that meant a great deal to me in that few minutes and in the few minutes that followed, as my group members gave me some feedback of what they observed me doing and saying.

Before I do, though, I need to make a confession. 

I didn't know whether or not I would make a good counselor. I wondered if, after all was said and done, my courses passed and then entering my practicum (estimated time of arrival for that will be Spring 2015) ... whether I was really "cut out" for counseling.

I had heard people tell me that I would be a great counselor. I had gotten support and encouragement from my family, from my friends and from colleagues. And I appreciate everyone's faith in me. It really helps.

But that night was different. That night there were people listening to me, watching me, and evaluating my responses in "real time".  People that have already been in the leather chair, so to speak. 

My office space inviting me

I was so incredibly nervous. I found myself fumbling, grasping for words. And then as I listened to my "client," it happened. I became engrossed in her story. I started listening rather than thinking of what to say next. 

When we were done (the whole thing took under 10 minutes) my colleagues (including my "client") told me what they thought. Honestly. As they described my skills to me from their objective points of view, it was such a boost to my confidence level. It was also a relief that perhaps I hadn't been barking up the wrong tree when I decided to pursue this degree, and it made me very grateful that I had an opportunity to practice these skills in a safe environment (instead of being thrown into the deep end! and I'm not a swimmer, folks...) 

What I'm learning as a result of these interactions and my readings is that even if I don't have a particular skill, I can develop that skill with practice. And if I DO have a particular skill, I can hone it with practice. Plus, if I need to get some feedback or talk about an area that I feel I am weak in, I can talk to someone who has been at it for a lot longer, and gain some insight from him or her. 

I'm not in this alone. And whether or not I have 'what it takes' ... I have people around me who will make sure that I get it. 

That's worth a whole lot to me.

Worth it

“If you had asked me, before this happened, what the worst thing in my life would be, it would be to lose a child. To lose Sarah. I now know that there is one thing worse and that would be never to have had her at all. Right. So what that tells me is to look at all these wonderful things she did accomplish and to enjoy them, let them bring you happiness.”
- Jan Phelan, Sarah Burke's mom.
Quote retrieved from the video at:  http://olympics.cbc.ca/blogs/author/nick-purdon/article/sarah-burke-legacy-lives-sochi-olympics.html

I forgot an appointment today. I missed my reminder on my email because I was away from my desk when it popped up on my computer. So fifteen minutes later I got a call from the person with whom I was to have met. "You coming?" Apologies and ten minutes later I was meeting with her. The meeting took less than the hour we had budgeted, but it did go over the time we were supposed to be finished (she had to see another person right after me). 

So I was late leaving her office. What that meant was that I took short-cuts through stores and a coffee shop on the way back to work. And in the coffee shop ... I saw her. It was someone I used to work with a couple of years previous and who hadn't seen me since my daughter passed away last October. 

She'd heard. It seems most everyone has. And she conveyed her condolences. We chatted for a bit as her to-go order came up and that's when she told me about the interview with Jan Phelan and the quote (above) that struck her and was so powerful that it made her cry. 

It was so powerful that it made me cry too. Which is as it should be. 

It was moving - the tremendous attitude of this mother whose daughter's life was cut short on a snowboarding slope as she trained for a lead-up to the first-ever half-pipe competition in a winter Olympics. It was inspiring. 

It was just what I needed to hear. 

There were times in my youngest daughter's life that I wasn't so sure if it had been a good idea to have another child. Times when I was fighting with schoolteachers and the mental health care system and even wondering why she would deliberately pick friends that made me uncomfortable... It wasn't easy parenting this kid who was so unbelievably the opposite from me. Sometimes I messed up royally! Most times I wondered if she was stringing me a line. 

And ... were it not for the last 35 days of her life, I would have said that it wasn't worth the trouble. All the nights I cried myself to sleep wondering if she was alive and safe. All the times I checked the weather forecast in Edmonton, Alberta to see if she might have frozen to death in her car the night before. All the money I poured into her bank account hoping that she'd find a place to live, thinking that all she needed was a chance to prove herself. There were people who told me that I was letting her take advantage of me.  I had given until there was nothing left to give and still I gave some more, going into debt to do it. And by rights, I should have given up and let her fend for herself. It wasn't worth the anguish and the sleepless nights. By rights.

But then ... there were those last 35 days. Those last, priceless, 35 days.

Summer 2012 at Victoria Park

Don't misunderstand me. She wasn't a saint and (we are learning now) she still pulled the wool over my eyes again and again about where and how she was spending the money I sent to her.  However, something fundamental ... something wonderful ... happened inside of her on September 17, 2013 that turned her life around ... and made the bad times seem more worth it. We connected on a deep, spiritual level. I remember her saying to me, nearly awestruck, in early October or thereabouts, "I just can't believe that you and I are talking about God. Of all things." It's all I ever wanted for her. It was my finest prayer, my finest hope for her to be able to experience Him in a real way like she did that night in September.

And no, I'm not some sort of masochist (someone who enjoys pain) when I say that it was worth it. And I'm not about to say that I'd do it all over again. Once was quite enough ... thank you. I'd rather crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass than go through that again. But ... I can see that there was a purpose in it all being allowed.  

Family relationships have been mended. New friendships have been forged. Existing friendships have been deepened. Some people have had their lives transformed by her legacy. Many other people all over North America, and even as far away as Australia, have been deeply touched by her story (link to that story here) and I believe firmly that it needs to be told, again and again. 

I also believe that it was no accident that I was running late today, that it was so cold that I was cutting through buildings to get where I was going. It was no coincidence that my old acquaintance was there or that she had watched the highlights reel of the Olympic coverage and caught that snippet of an interview with the mom of one of our would-be athletes. No, I don't believe in coincidences. As Albert Einstein said, coincidences are just God's way of remaining anonymous. 

Let her story touch you. That's what it is for. That's what makes the tragedy of her death worth it.

One Step at a Time

Already the journey seems long. 

Every day drags into the next; there is a same-ness to them that is somehow numbing. Numbing feels good sometimes, now that the initial surreal-ness of the grieving process has worn off and the hurts (when they happen, usually unexpectedly) hurt worse. 

The problem with the numbness is that sometimes I forget how fragile I still am. 

And a large part of me just doesn't want to "go there." There are issues I need to work through, but try as I might, I just can't make myself open that Pandora's box. Looking within, I can tell that I do have unresolved feelings and that these feelings need to be addressed, but it's not an experience I look forward to having, because it involves allowing myself to be angry at someone whom I love dearly and whom I miss so much that it aches. 

When I have "impatient" or "self-critical" times like this, I try to think about what my counselor would say to me. Or what I would say to someone else who was going through this. And it helps me to turn the Golden Rule toward the mirror, to treat myself the way I wish to be treated, to be gentle with myself.

Grief looks different for every person and also for every loss for the same person. There is no right way to do it; there is no timetable to follow. It takes however long it takes and it takes whatever path it takes. If I am not ready to tackle a certain part of my process and I am truly honest with myself, I will discover (as I have so many times these last three months) that the part of the process for which I am not ready is not where I am supposed to be for right now, that I can let it go. It will return when I am better equipped. 

Right now I'm not ready to even look at my anger. I am currently at a different stage - psychologists call it bargaining - and part of that stage (for those who are dealing with a death) is a tremendous sense of guilt: the "if only" mentality. 

"If only" is not pleasant. But it's normal to feel those feelings. Realizing that all the "if only" statements in the world aren't going to change what happened has been a process in itself, and applies to each regret in turn; there is no 'blanket' coverage for it. Every time, the process is the same.  Feel the feelings. Look at them and figure out why they are there, and do what I need to do in order to look after myself. 

Image "Watering Stump" by rattigon at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Objectively, I can see that going through the process in this way is necessary. Personally, I can't work through feelings of anger against someone else until I've faced my need to work through my own guilt and forgive myself for so many things. Some of it I've processed; that is progress. At least I can sleep past 1:30 a.m. without sleep aids now. 

It doesn't stop me from wanting this whole thing to be over with, though. I keep wanting to "skip to the end" but ... it doesn't work that way. I need to take one step at a time. And then I get to take the next step, and the next. Eventually I'll have worked through the tough stuff ... even the anger that I am unable to process right now. 

The blessing about going through the process as it happens (without borrowing trouble from the next step before I get there) will be that the memories, the good times that bring comfort and laughter - these will remain. It doesn't mean that I'll have stopped grieving, or that I have ceased caring, or that the pain will go away. It will just be different.

Maybe different will be good. I hope so.

Journey of 1,000 miles

The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, so the saying goes. 

And then there's the next one. And the next. And the next.

And a seemingly endless, terrifyingly long journey it is. Taken into the mind all at once, it seems insurmountable. 

So many things in life are like that. Grief is one thing. Pain is another. And truth be told, the entirety of LIFE is like that. One day blindly merging into the next and if taken all as one heap, overwhelming. Bewildering. Uncertain. Stressful.

Regret for the past and worry for the future fill our mental health care facilities. We can call it a lot of fancy-sounding names but the many forms of depression and anxiety boil down at their most basic form, to an inability to live in the moment. (Notice I didn't say an unwillingness. I said an inability.)
 
"Without help it is too much for us." (Alcoholics Anonymous, ch 5: "How it Works"). 

Help comes from various sources. 

• friends who care and who show it
• mental health professionals
• support groups
• 12-step groups (which primarily are NOT support groups, so they get their own designation)
• family and/or "chosen family"
• church members
• pastors and other church leaders
• and last but definitely not least, trusting in a "higher power" has the potential to help. Immensely.

Even the word "help" implies a source outside of the self, so let's not delude ourselves into thinking that we can do this (live our whole lives) in isolation.

Ahh yes. Like a two-year-old flexing his independence muscles, the self vaunts itself up and says, "Me do it myself." 

Maybe. But would I ever want to be that self-sufficient that I didn't need anyone? Would I like the kind of person I would become if I thought I didn't need others in my life? Ever?

I don't think so. 

I think I have met a few of those people who honestly think they don't need anyone else. They wouldn't think of reading someone else's blog - at least not one like this - because they feel they have it all together. (Of course there are many reasons for not reading blogs; that's just one of them. ;) ) ...  But here's the thing. While these folks ooze with a sense of their own brand of bravery ... well, I cannot recall ever wanting to be around them for too long, because it all seemed a little, you know, arrogant. Just saying. 

I do know a few people, though, in whose company I feel welcome, safe, and accepted. And every single one of them admit that they need others in their lives to be able to put one foot in front of the other. To feel centered.

To stay in today. 

Photo "Footprints On The Beach Sand" is by
foto76 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Life - and death, and deep grief (I am discovering) - teaches me that today is the day in which I live and love. Yesterday is gone, although I can still have wonderful memories to sustain me. Tomorrow is not here yet, although I can still dream of better days. But living life happens right here, right now, and while I'm doing that, I need help. And help is there. Even in the darkest of nights, all I need to do is whisper, "God?" and I know He understands. And He carries me for a while.

And there's more. 

Help from people is all around me if I know where to look; sometimes I need to ask for it, because people (contrary to my "if they love me they'll know how I feel" fallacy) can't read my mind, especially if I hide how I feel to "spare their feelings." (As if mine didn't count.) And sometimes help even comes unbidden, from places I never thought to check! This is certain: more people care about me than I had ever dreamed; I am finding that out now more than at any other time in my life. And although sometimes that care is expressed in ways I might not understand or appreciate at the time, I am learning to see past fumbled words and awkward silences and see the heart beneath. 

And it's good.

But help can only go so far, and the helpers around me only frustrated, if I insist on tormenting myself with the regrets of past that I can't change and with the dreaded events of the future that I am powerless to prevent. That is one reason why I have to remind myself to stay in today; it's the only way to not just survive, but to live. Fully. Take THIS step. Then the NEXT one. Left foot, right foot. Look up. Be grateful. Forgive. Breathe. Move on. 

Repeat. Repeat as many times as there are steps to take ... because the journey is worth it.

Unexpected

So much about the last several weeks has been unexpected.

Not the least of which was the unexpected visit from the police on October 23 informing my husband and oldest daughter of the death of the youngest member of our family the night before. Or the unexpected call I then got at work from my husband informing me of the same. 

Immediately, there were unexpected people standing there beside me, hugging me, doing unexpected generous and caring things in unexpectedly kind and thoughtful ways. People we thought barely knew us rallied around us - all of it unanticipated - we were never alone, never without support, never without the prayers and love of people near and far. 

There were unexpected reconciliations in relationships that seemed to happen almost unbidden. Family relationships, work relationships, church relationships. 

There were the unexpected gifts we received: food, friendship, finances, fellowship - each one bowling us over with implicit messages of caring, of concern, of compassion. 

Her friends "friended" me. They ask about how I'm doing. They show that they care. My family got a whole lot bigger. All unexpected. 

There were the condolences. The flood of people who came to the wake (okay, for those where I grew up that means visiting hours, not an Irish wake!) to hug us, to cry with us - from every facet of our lives, and some we hadn't seen in over a decade. The folks we didn't expect, who attended the funeral. Those who took their sparklers and lit them that night ... and made a video to put on Facebook to show that they honoured their best friend. The father of the young man who was a passenger in her car that night sent condolences on behalf of himself and his son. He let us know how the young man was doing; we heard his pain at his son's anguish in those words. He didn't have to contact us. It was unexpected. The card we got from someone in Ontario who used to go to youth group with her, telling us it was a joy to know her.

Getting every last morsel of icing off the
candles of her birthday cake - 2012

People we didn't know in Alberta contacted us. RCMP people, insurance people, coroner's office people. As professional as they had to be, they were also compassionate, sensitive, and kind. They still are. The medical examiner called our house Friday night to let us know the results of his report. He could have waited until we received it in the mail, but he wanted to let us know personally and as soon as possible, that alcohol was not a factor in the crash. That was unexpected.

And most recently, just in today's mail we received something that the RCMP in Wetaskiwin, Alberta had received and forwarded to us. It was a sympathy card, with heartfelt condolences inside ... from the family who was in the van that was struck that night - a mother and two of her children. Yet all their names were listed, and the names of those who were in the vehicle underlined. We'd been told that the mother's back was broken - that thankfully there was no paralysis. There was every reason for her to be resentful. Yet there was no tone of anger or of blame. Only sadness that our daughter "didn't make it."

Unexpected. 

And humbling. The overwhelming, overarching feeling we have as each piece fits together in this crazy jigsaw puzzle, is one of gratitude. There is so much that could have happened, which didn't. We've had to rethink a lot of things, redefine a lot of words.  Miracles abound - they started happening the very day we heard ... and they continue to this very day.  

And all around us, people are lifting us up, letting us talk, and welcoming us into their hearts. We are loved. And astounded.

And even these words are not enough to describe it all. And neither are the following words, but with all my heart, I'm saying them anyway.

Thank you.