Today would be my dad's 79th birthday.
Today is the first New Years Day that I can ever remember when I didn't see my dad, or at the very least, make a phone call. New Years has always been an important day in my life. It was also my grandma's birthday (my dad's mom). It's just always been more than just a holiday in my life.
Today has been odd.
I had originally planned to go to the cemetery, but we're on day 19 of a miserable cold in our house and I was up again most of the night with a coughing kid. I feel like a mom with a newborn and driving a car doesn't even feel safe right now. I'm tired and run down and raw. So I stayed home.
This cold has allowed me to have a distraction over Christmas and now New Years. But the reality of all of it has settled in today.
Having said that...It's a new year. A fresh slate laid out in front of me. I'm ready to move forward. My parents would not, in any way, want me to stop my life. That doesn't mean I don't grieve. It means I grieve when I need to grieve and then I keep moving forward. I have ideas for this year. Of course, I know well enough now that "plans" are simply "plans". I have no control over where life takes me. I only have control over how I handle what life throws my way.
Right now, I am exhausted and ready for this cold to leave my home. But...I have no control over that. I have to ride it out. Which means putting my new years plans on the back burner until we're all healthy again. It's making me frustrated. And in the dark, in the middle of the night, I don't think clearly. And my brain LOVES to tell me stories. And right now, I'm simply doing the best I can.
What I know is that 2015 did a number on me. And I feel the weight of the past six months. But what I also know is that every day, I still get up and move forward. And that's progress.
But I'd really like the universe to back off just a bit. I need some breathing room. I need my family (and myself) to be healthy. I don't know how much longer I can go at this pace. And I'm not afraid to admit it. I'm not a robot. I'm human. A human who is grieving. And exhausted. And who really needs a break.
Maybe that break will come tonight. Maybe not.
But come tomorrow, I will have survived my first holiday season without both my parents. And I will have survived dad's first birthday without him. That's something.
And then I'll take another step. In search of that break.
Friday, January 1, 2016
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Grief Dares Us to Love Once More
"Grief dares us to love once more." ~ Francis Weller, The Wild Edge of Sorrow.
THIS. This sort of screamed at me out of this book. This is what grief does. It challenges (dares) us to go on, to continue to love while knowing so deeply the pain of loss. We can choose to stop loving, or we can accept grief's dare.
But there are days when you are in the throes of grief when loving feels terrifying. When you are walking a constant tightrope of continuing to live and love and walking through the hot coals of grief. Sometimes one foot is on both sides. A soul split. A heart both filled with love and breaking from loss. It is an almost constant dichotomy.
This one sentence screamed to me because this is my daily challenge right now. It is why my anxiety is at the highest it's been in at least a decade. It's why my heart skips beats now and then. It's why sleep is elusive. It's why a bad cold in my kid can ramp me up to extreme levels of concern. Because I know how fragile life is. I know how one day can change everything.
And grief dares me to keep going. To keep believing in the miracle of every day. To keep loving through grief.
And some days (and lots of nights), it's terrifyingly hard not to let grief win. To not let the pain win and take over. But grief and I have been here before. I have a love/hate relationship with it.
And I know that this is the deepest of grief journeys. Choosing, every day, to love again.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Setbacks are Part of the Journey
So, I'm just going to say it. I am not in a great place right now. I am so, so tired. I feel like a mom with a newborn. I haven't had a full night's sleep in over two weeks. And I've had a few nights of getting less than 2 hours total. It's a great reminder for me as I'm working with new parents. Sleep deprivation can make you crazy.
Sleep deprivation takes down your defenses and allows your head to tell you stories. Old stories. Stories that are no longer true. But without your normal defenses, it's hard to remember that you've moved beyond those stories.
I'm raw. I'm at the point where even when I am lying in bed exhausted, instead of sleeping, my brain just spins stories. Scary, dark stories. And all my tools, all my knowledge, all my understanding struggle to fight through those stories.
I have two sick kids. One who I took to the ER at 3am the day after Christmas. The Emergency Room! The last time I took a kid to the ER was when my oldest was 20 months old and he had pneumonia. That was 15 1/2 years ago. But there I was, the day after Christmas, at the same emergency room where I took my dad 3 months ago. And I was there because I had a kid who was struggling to breathe. All the while, I'm sick too. Not cool, universe. Not cool at all.
But then I thought we were on an upswing and I was looking forward to returning to work for a couple of days this week. Until 2am this morning when the cycle of not breathing started all over again. Christopher actually asked me to sleep on the downstairs couch to be near him. That's the first time I've had a kid "need" me in a long time. But it was also pretty scary.
And so I spent a couple of hours contacting every single client scheduled this week and clearing my calendar. And that is super hard for me. I have a very strong work ethic. I have a strong responsibility to my clients. But I have an even stronger responsibility to my family. Especially my children. And I would tell every single one of my clients to choose their family first. Once again, I have to walk my talk. There was, of course, no question that this was the right choice. But sometimes the right choices are still hard ones.
So, today I'm home. Tired. So.Very.Tired. Our naturopath is out of the office until tomorrow, but thankfully, the local naturopathic clinic in town got Christopher in late this afternoon. We are pretty sure we know what's going on. We just don't know how to stop it. Hopefully we'll get some answers on that today. I don't know how much longer I can do this. I don't know how much longer my body goes before shutting down. I don't know how I will get well until my kids are well.
And I'm so frustrated. I was finally finding myself again. I had established a good meditation and workout practice. I was finding my strength and endurance again. And now I feel broken again. My body is beat. I don't have the energy to do anything. The only time I've been out of the house and have seen other people since I left work last week was our trip to the ER. My house is a disaster area of leftover Christmas and boxes of cold treatments and kleenex. It's wearing on me, but there's no energy to do anything about it.
Not to even mention the grief that I haven't had time to feel this holiday season. Or the fact that my dad's birthday is coming up in 4 days.
This is hard. The world I'm living in right now is exhausting and isolating and really, really hard.
But setbacks are part of the process. This means there is something good on the horizon. I just wish I knew when. It feels like it has just been one hit after another since October 3rd when my dad was admitted to the hospital. I want to smile. I want to laugh. I want have fun again. Of course, I know I will. I just wish I knew when.
And I know I'm not alone. Many are suffering this year. Many are suffering right now. And we'll all get through it. It's just hard right now. So, if you're reading this and things are hard for you too, please know you're not alone. And that out of these hard times come better days. And all we can do is continue take things one step at a time.
Sleep deprivation takes down your defenses and allows your head to tell you stories. Old stories. Stories that are no longer true. But without your normal defenses, it's hard to remember that you've moved beyond those stories.
I'm raw. I'm at the point where even when I am lying in bed exhausted, instead of sleeping, my brain just spins stories. Scary, dark stories. And all my tools, all my knowledge, all my understanding struggle to fight through those stories.
I have two sick kids. One who I took to the ER at 3am the day after Christmas. The Emergency Room! The last time I took a kid to the ER was when my oldest was 20 months old and he had pneumonia. That was 15 1/2 years ago. But there I was, the day after Christmas, at the same emergency room where I took my dad 3 months ago. And I was there because I had a kid who was struggling to breathe. All the while, I'm sick too. Not cool, universe. Not cool at all.
But then I thought we were on an upswing and I was looking forward to returning to work for a couple of days this week. Until 2am this morning when the cycle of not breathing started all over again. Christopher actually asked me to sleep on the downstairs couch to be near him. That's the first time I've had a kid "need" me in a long time. But it was also pretty scary.
And so I spent a couple of hours contacting every single client scheduled this week and clearing my calendar. And that is super hard for me. I have a very strong work ethic. I have a strong responsibility to my clients. But I have an even stronger responsibility to my family. Especially my children. And I would tell every single one of my clients to choose their family first. Once again, I have to walk my talk. There was, of course, no question that this was the right choice. But sometimes the right choices are still hard ones.
So, today I'm home. Tired. So.Very.Tired. Our naturopath is out of the office until tomorrow, but thankfully, the local naturopathic clinic in town got Christopher in late this afternoon. We are pretty sure we know what's going on. We just don't know how to stop it. Hopefully we'll get some answers on that today. I don't know how much longer I can do this. I don't know how much longer my body goes before shutting down. I don't know how I will get well until my kids are well.
And I'm so frustrated. I was finally finding myself again. I had established a good meditation and workout practice. I was finding my strength and endurance again. And now I feel broken again. My body is beat. I don't have the energy to do anything. The only time I've been out of the house and have seen other people since I left work last week was our trip to the ER. My house is a disaster area of leftover Christmas and boxes of cold treatments and kleenex. It's wearing on me, but there's no energy to do anything about it.
Not to even mention the grief that I haven't had time to feel this holiday season. Or the fact that my dad's birthday is coming up in 4 days.
This is hard. The world I'm living in right now is exhausting and isolating and really, really hard.
But setbacks are part of the process. This means there is something good on the horizon. I just wish I knew when. It feels like it has just been one hit after another since October 3rd when my dad was admitted to the hospital. I want to smile. I want to laugh. I want have fun again. Of course, I know I will. I just wish I knew when.
And I know I'm not alone. Many are suffering this year. Many are suffering right now. And we'll all get through it. It's just hard right now. So, if you're reading this and things are hard for you too, please know you're not alone. And that out of these hard times come better days. And all we can do is continue take things one step at a time.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Do You Ever Wonder....
Do you ever wonder about the people who have come through your life, how you met them, and how important they were...or are...to parts of your life that you could never have imagined?
No?
Just me? ;)
I hope some of you do this too.
I've been thinking about it a lot lately.
I was thinking about this before a package showed up on my doorstep yesterday from my very first doula client from 15 years ago. A care package to let me know she was thinking about me in my grief.
15 years ago, I had a 2 year old son. My youngest son didn't even exist on this earth yet. So much life has happened in 15 years. And yet, had I not had my first son, taken the childbirth class I took, hired the doula I hired who empowered me to see something in me I couldn't see...had none of that happened, I would never have taken a doula training, I would never have met this couple, I would never have shared three births with them, they would never have helped me refinance a house and purchase two others, and that package would never have showed up on my door with the most lovely card that said the exact words I needed to hear in that moment.
And if I had never hired that doula, and become empowered, and done that doula training and had I never gone to that birth, I may never have fallen in love with the birth world the way I did. I likely would have never trained as a childbirth educator and gone on to teach childbirth classes at a hospital where I met my husband who was my rock during both my parents' deaths. I'm not sure how I would have handled either of those deaths without him. Not to mention, I love him and can't imagine my life without him. Period.
And had I not become a doula, I would have not met one of my friends...and likely may not have maintained such a close friendship with another friend....because we were all doulas together. Those two friends spent the night with me in my dad's apartment the night before he died. Those are true friends. And the other people who offered to spend the night with me were also people I met through serendipitous ways. I was surrounded by love and support throughout my dad's dying process by so many people that I met through so many different ways.
Had I not had the doula I had who empowered me in birth, I may not have felt as empowered as a mother to make the choices I made. I may not have reached out to strangers on the internet on mom boards looking for support. I am still friends with several of those women. And I have never met them face to face. But I would 100% call them friends. We've all been through a lot together and have been a support to one another. All our kids are nearly grown now and we're still friends. I have learned so much from all of them.
I'm not really a believer in coincidences. I believe things happen as they are supposed to. But it's truly fascinating to sit and think about how one decision spawns others. And in making decisions, people come in to one's life, exactly when they are needed.
The day I signed up for a childbirth class in Seattle ultimately resulted in a package showing up on my door yesterday. Had I chosen another class...EVERYTHING in my life could have been different. Of course, if my dad had chosen to take a transfer to Georgia when I was in 7th grade, my life would have been completely different. Every day, we all make decisions, never knowing, or often never even considering, whose life may be affected and what might come from those decisions years and years later.
Life is FASCINATING. And grief makes you think. And ponder life. And loss. And friendship. And love. And death.
And in that...there is beauty in this whole grief thing.
Friday, December 4, 2015
Thank Goodness for New Days
My last post was a rough one. It was real. But it was rough. And I promised to be transparent so it's important to share the rough stuff. But it's just as important to share the good days...or weeks. And this has been one.
After what was definitely a rough weekend, it's nice to be able to say that the rough weekend was followed by a good week. I mean, like any week, it had its ups and downs, but here I am on Friday and I'm feeling good. Better than I have felt in some time.
And here's what I attribute that to...
1) Time.
It has been 41 days since my dad died. That's not a lot. And I still have a LOT of work to do. I've got this whole year of firsts to get through. Really, the grief work is just beginning. BUT...time DOES help. I still have a moment every night where I remind myself to pick up the phone and call dad and then am immediately reminded that he's gone. Every night. That stinks. But it also reminds me of how close we were. And that gives me some peace. I quite vividly now can see him well up with tears when he would tell people how grateful he was for me. He said, quite often, "she is a wonderful daughter". When dad first died, I was carrying a lot of guilt...I wondered if I could have done more. Could I have stopped this from happening? Truly...a whole stinking lot of guilt. It's still there. It's going to take time to work through it. But 41 days later, I can more clearly see how close we were and that he knew I was there for him. Until the very end.
2) Being honest with my feelings and feeling everything that needs to be felt, no matter how much I may not want to feel the hard stuff.
I have felt ALL the feelings. Whenever they come. I feel them. Whether I like it or not. I'm not holding anything in. I really feel this is a huge step in the grieving process. And may be the hardest step. We avoid pain in American culture. Sometimes at all costs. And I believe, wholeheartedly, that that's what holds us back. That's what makes grief seep into our bones and store itself there...sometimes for ever. And it comes out in other ways. In illness. In physical pain. I refuse to let that happen. I'm feeling it NOW. I'm letting the grief fall in tear after tear after tear. I will always miss my dad. But I will not let grief store itself inside of me. I will feel it. Today, tomorrow, 5 years from now, 10 years from now...whenever it shows up. I will meet it head on and I will feel what needs to be felt.
3) Validation
This week, I had coffee with a very good friend. My only close friend (who is not family) who has lost both her parents. Sitting with her and chatting about the experience was so beneficial for me. The validation of the complexity of this loss was immeasurable for me. One day, I hope I can give the same validation to someone else.
4) Meditation
On my week of bereavement leave, my goal was to meditate every day and get my regular meditation practice going again. I cannot explain enough how important this has been for me. I have kept it up and meditate almost daily (didn't over the holiday weekend). It has been so healing and has given me so much more clarity than I had without it. Through meditation I have been able to find a way to start moving forward instead of being stuck in my grief. It has been huge for me.
5) Working Out
In conjunction with the meditation, the working out has helped me start connecting with my physical body again. And how strong it is. It hasn't given up on me. Even when I gave up on it. It feels good to be reconnected and through meditation and working out, I've found new goals for myself that give me something to focus on outside of grief. This is also a big step.
A few weeks ago (heck, just last Sunday), I felt so stuck in my grief. It felt like quicksand that I couldn't claw my way out of. I know it's very likely I will be there again. There's still lots of work to do. But I also know that the steps I have taken to take care of myself will help me remember that there is always another day, another hour, another moment. I will not be stuck forever. Sometimes it's important to stop and sit with grief. And other times, it's important to take a step forward.
On Sunday I said I was not taking any steps. I was not going to face the hot coals for a while. This week I feel like I walked over several of them.
Today I am decorating the house for the holidays. I don't expect that to be tear-free. But I expect that I can put on some holiday music and enjoy the experience, for the most part. That is BIG.
So, here's to new days, self care, and to taking a few steps forward. :)
After what was definitely a rough weekend, it's nice to be able to say that the rough weekend was followed by a good week. I mean, like any week, it had its ups and downs, but here I am on Friday and I'm feeling good. Better than I have felt in some time.
And here's what I attribute that to...
1) Time.
It has been 41 days since my dad died. That's not a lot. And I still have a LOT of work to do. I've got this whole year of firsts to get through. Really, the grief work is just beginning. BUT...time DOES help. I still have a moment every night where I remind myself to pick up the phone and call dad and then am immediately reminded that he's gone. Every night. That stinks. But it also reminds me of how close we were. And that gives me some peace. I quite vividly now can see him well up with tears when he would tell people how grateful he was for me. He said, quite often, "she is a wonderful daughter". When dad first died, I was carrying a lot of guilt...I wondered if I could have done more. Could I have stopped this from happening? Truly...a whole stinking lot of guilt. It's still there. It's going to take time to work through it. But 41 days later, I can more clearly see how close we were and that he knew I was there for him. Until the very end.
2) Being honest with my feelings and feeling everything that needs to be felt, no matter how much I may not want to feel the hard stuff.
I have felt ALL the feelings. Whenever they come. I feel them. Whether I like it or not. I'm not holding anything in. I really feel this is a huge step in the grieving process. And may be the hardest step. We avoid pain in American culture. Sometimes at all costs. And I believe, wholeheartedly, that that's what holds us back. That's what makes grief seep into our bones and store itself there...sometimes for ever. And it comes out in other ways. In illness. In physical pain. I refuse to let that happen. I'm feeling it NOW. I'm letting the grief fall in tear after tear after tear. I will always miss my dad. But I will not let grief store itself inside of me. I will feel it. Today, tomorrow, 5 years from now, 10 years from now...whenever it shows up. I will meet it head on and I will feel what needs to be felt.
3) Validation
This week, I had coffee with a very good friend. My only close friend (who is not family) who has lost both her parents. Sitting with her and chatting about the experience was so beneficial for me. The validation of the complexity of this loss was immeasurable for me. One day, I hope I can give the same validation to someone else.
4) Meditation
On my week of bereavement leave, my goal was to meditate every day and get my regular meditation practice going again. I cannot explain enough how important this has been for me. I have kept it up and meditate almost daily (didn't over the holiday weekend). It has been so healing and has given me so much more clarity than I had without it. Through meditation I have been able to find a way to start moving forward instead of being stuck in my grief. It has been huge for me.
5) Working Out
In conjunction with the meditation, the working out has helped me start connecting with my physical body again. And how strong it is. It hasn't given up on me. Even when I gave up on it. It feels good to be reconnected and through meditation and working out, I've found new goals for myself that give me something to focus on outside of grief. This is also a big step.
A few weeks ago (heck, just last Sunday), I felt so stuck in my grief. It felt like quicksand that I couldn't claw my way out of. I know it's very likely I will be there again. There's still lots of work to do. But I also know that the steps I have taken to take care of myself will help me remember that there is always another day, another hour, another moment. I will not be stuck forever. Sometimes it's important to stop and sit with grief. And other times, it's important to take a step forward.
On Sunday I said I was not taking any steps. I was not going to face the hot coals for a while. This week I feel like I walked over several of them.
Today I am decorating the house for the holidays. I don't expect that to be tear-free. But I expect that I can put on some holiday music and enjoy the experience, for the most part. That is BIG.
So, here's to new days, self care, and to taking a few steps forward. :)
Sunday, November 29, 2015
Sometimes Reality is Ugly
So here's the thing. I promised I'd be real here. I promised I'd be transparent and show what grief can look like. Or at least what mine does. And I've done that to a pretty good extent.
You may have noticed, I haven't been great with all my Giving Thanks posts at the end of November. Honestly, I sort of gave up. It became too much. Because right now, all I'm really thankful for is for my family and my friends who are keeping me afloat to the best of their ability and/or are simply putting up with me these days. I don't have a lot more.
It's Sunday again. I'm not a fan. I tend to be up all night. I don't want to remind myself of that, but I also don't want to ignore it. Nights are hard. Sunday nights are especially hard. I don't really know why it's so much harder except that I have to be up super early on Monday mornings and so I know it's just that much more tired that I'm going to be. But work is still my refuge so it's not that I don't want to be there.
Really...being home kind of tears me up. There aren't enough distractions. And I need distractions. I just do right now.
Last Wednesday, I prepped for Thanksgiving all day. Good distraction.
Thursday was Thanksgiving. Not easy, but still distracted.
Friday was dad's cemetery service. Crap. Hello grief...right in my face. I'd been doing such a good job distracting myself from you. Olly and I went bowling afterwards. It's what we did after my mom's funeral, so I figured, "Why not?". This was different. I couldn't find the laughter. At one point, grief came and slapped me around a bit and I found myself with a bowling ball in my hand, starting to hyperventilate while tears began pouring down my face. Grief has no mercy.
Saturday, Olly and I took a brief jaunt 45 minutes from home to the place we were married. I was looking for a getaway. A place to breathe. Let's admit it, I was running. Of course, I know that I can't run from grief. It just packs itself up in the luggage and comes along, invited or not. Asshole.
It was a rough night. I tried hard to enjoy myself. But it just wasn't there. I was insincere. And I could tell that people could see it. I spent a lot of money to run away. Dumb. I could have just sat on my own deck and cried. I could have laid awake in my own bed. Maybe next year, at some point, I can get away and breathe. But it doesn't matter where I go right now. The grief is coming with me, clogging up my lungs, dumping water from my eyes at the drop of a hat.
So, here's the thing. It is REALLY hard right now. The grief feels SO heavy. On my shoulders, in my lungs, in my heart. I can't remember things. Christmas feels SO overwhelming. I haven't even begun to consider gifts. And decorating the house sounds like complete hell.
I hate it here. Hows that for transparency? I HATE this place. H.A.T.E. it. I want OUT. I don't want to be here.
But I know I have no choice. I know I have to walk through this, not around it. But I don't want to. At all. It feels too hard. It feels like too much.
How I long for the distraction of work. Where I know what I'm doing. In my office that provides me peace. That peace that is so elusive anywhere else.
But then I have to walk out my door again. And grief is just waiting outside to walk me to my car and ride with me wherever I go.
I KNOW that the work I am doing is important and beneficial to me and to future clients who will walk their own similar paths. I understand every ounce of that rationally. I also know this WILL get easier.
Rational thought is not my problem right now. I understand the process of grief. Rationally.
But, my heart wants answers. It wants to know how much longer. It wants to know when our smile will be sincere again. It wants to know when we'll have fun again. It wants to know when this will be OVER.
And then my asshole brain reminds me it will never be over.
I KNOW. But I don't want to hear that. I don't want to feel this way anymore. It's hard. How many more tears can I cry? (Clearly...lots and lots...). My eyes hurt. They sting all the time.
I just hurt. Weighted down by so much grief. It feels hard to walk sometimes. My heart palpitates loudly so I can't ignore it. Often. I find it hard to breathe. A lot. I keep looking for answers when I know there aren't any.
And then I beat myself up, because I am a GRIEF COUNSELOR. I know all this stuff. Shouldn't I be able to do it better than anyone? You know, like I was so good at birthing a baby as a doula...because I knew so much (that's sarcasm for the record...I totally tried to think my way through labor...what a surprise).
I can't explain to people what this is like. There is no explanation for living in the world without your parents. You can't understand it until you are there. Just like so much in life. We all have our journeys. We all have life experiences that can't be explained to people who haven't experienced it. And we're often all so judgmental of other people in life. But we don't know their story.
This is mine. And it sucks right now. It just does. I know I'm learning and growing and I won't be the same person on the other side and blah, blah, blah. I get it. I just don't care. I don't want to do learn or grow or change.
And, yet, that's life. Every day, I wake up and attempt to step over another hot coal. Right now, I don't want to take one single step. And I have to remind myself that that's okay. I can just stay right here. But at some point, I have to move forward again. That's how I get through this.
But for the sake of transparency, I'm just telling you... I'm not taking steps right now. It's too much. It's too hard. And I don't want to do it. If I could make December go away, I would.
So, I'd like to give you a pre-emptive apology if you see me and I'm cranky and insincere. But I'm not going to apologize. This is grief. And sometimes it's ugly. And I'm not sorry for my ugliness.
All I can do is ask for a little grace. It's what I'm trying to give myself (although I'm really really bad at giving myself that same grace I could easily give to someone else). If you see me...ask me how I'm doing and be prepared for tears. And know that I'm not asking you to fix anything. It's just where I'm at right now. Go ahead and give me that hug. I'll take it. Yep...that's some serious growth there my friends. Totally cool with hugs these days.
Keep me in your thoughts. Hold some space for me.
And for all those you know who are grieving.
Because, if you haven't already, one day you'll be here too (or you'll be here again). And the best possible thing we can do for each other as humans is simply be there for one another when life gets ugly.
And the best thing we can do for ourselves is remember that it won't always be ugly in our life. But that we must make it through the ugly to get to the non-ugly parts. On our own time. At our own pace. For as long as it takes.
You may have noticed, I haven't been great with all my Giving Thanks posts at the end of November. Honestly, I sort of gave up. It became too much. Because right now, all I'm really thankful for is for my family and my friends who are keeping me afloat to the best of their ability and/or are simply putting up with me these days. I don't have a lot more.
It's Sunday again. I'm not a fan. I tend to be up all night. I don't want to remind myself of that, but I also don't want to ignore it. Nights are hard. Sunday nights are especially hard. I don't really know why it's so much harder except that I have to be up super early on Monday mornings and so I know it's just that much more tired that I'm going to be. But work is still my refuge so it's not that I don't want to be there.
Really...being home kind of tears me up. There aren't enough distractions. And I need distractions. I just do right now.
Last Wednesday, I prepped for Thanksgiving all day. Good distraction.
Thursday was Thanksgiving. Not easy, but still distracted.
Friday was dad's cemetery service. Crap. Hello grief...right in my face. I'd been doing such a good job distracting myself from you. Olly and I went bowling afterwards. It's what we did after my mom's funeral, so I figured, "Why not?". This was different. I couldn't find the laughter. At one point, grief came and slapped me around a bit and I found myself with a bowling ball in my hand, starting to hyperventilate while tears began pouring down my face. Grief has no mercy.
Saturday, Olly and I took a brief jaunt 45 minutes from home to the place we were married. I was looking for a getaway. A place to breathe. Let's admit it, I was running. Of course, I know that I can't run from grief. It just packs itself up in the luggage and comes along, invited or not. Asshole.
It was a rough night. I tried hard to enjoy myself. But it just wasn't there. I was insincere. And I could tell that people could see it. I spent a lot of money to run away. Dumb. I could have just sat on my own deck and cried. I could have laid awake in my own bed. Maybe next year, at some point, I can get away and breathe. But it doesn't matter where I go right now. The grief is coming with me, clogging up my lungs, dumping water from my eyes at the drop of a hat.
So, here's the thing. It is REALLY hard right now. The grief feels SO heavy. On my shoulders, in my lungs, in my heart. I can't remember things. Christmas feels SO overwhelming. I haven't even begun to consider gifts. And decorating the house sounds like complete hell.
I hate it here. Hows that for transparency? I HATE this place. H.A.T.E. it. I want OUT. I don't want to be here.
But I know I have no choice. I know I have to walk through this, not around it. But I don't want to. At all. It feels too hard. It feels like too much.
How I long for the distraction of work. Where I know what I'm doing. In my office that provides me peace. That peace that is so elusive anywhere else.
But then I have to walk out my door again. And grief is just waiting outside to walk me to my car and ride with me wherever I go.
I KNOW that the work I am doing is important and beneficial to me and to future clients who will walk their own similar paths. I understand every ounce of that rationally. I also know this WILL get easier.
Rational thought is not my problem right now. I understand the process of grief. Rationally.
But, my heart wants answers. It wants to know how much longer. It wants to know when our smile will be sincere again. It wants to know when we'll have fun again. It wants to know when this will be OVER.
And then my asshole brain reminds me it will never be over.
I KNOW. But I don't want to hear that. I don't want to feel this way anymore. It's hard. How many more tears can I cry? (Clearly...lots and lots...). My eyes hurt. They sting all the time.
I just hurt. Weighted down by so much grief. It feels hard to walk sometimes. My heart palpitates loudly so I can't ignore it. Often. I find it hard to breathe. A lot. I keep looking for answers when I know there aren't any.
And then I beat myself up, because I am a GRIEF COUNSELOR. I know all this stuff. Shouldn't I be able to do it better than anyone? You know, like I was so good at birthing a baby as a doula...because I knew so much (that's sarcasm for the record...I totally tried to think my way through labor...what a surprise).
I can't explain to people what this is like. There is no explanation for living in the world without your parents. You can't understand it until you are there. Just like so much in life. We all have our journeys. We all have life experiences that can't be explained to people who haven't experienced it. And we're often all so judgmental of other people in life. But we don't know their story.
This is mine. And it sucks right now. It just does. I know I'm learning and growing and I won't be the same person on the other side and blah, blah, blah. I get it. I just don't care. I don't want to do learn or grow or change.
And, yet, that's life. Every day, I wake up and attempt to step over another hot coal. Right now, I don't want to take one single step. And I have to remind myself that that's okay. I can just stay right here. But at some point, I have to move forward again. That's how I get through this.
But for the sake of transparency, I'm just telling you... I'm not taking steps right now. It's too much. It's too hard. And I don't want to do it. If I could make December go away, I would.
So, I'd like to give you a pre-emptive apology if you see me and I'm cranky and insincere. But I'm not going to apologize. This is grief. And sometimes it's ugly. And I'm not sorry for my ugliness.
All I can do is ask for a little grace. It's what I'm trying to give myself (although I'm really really bad at giving myself that same grace I could easily give to someone else). If you see me...ask me how I'm doing and be prepared for tears. And know that I'm not asking you to fix anything. It's just where I'm at right now. Go ahead and give me that hug. I'll take it. Yep...that's some serious growth there my friends. Totally cool with hugs these days.
Keep me in your thoughts. Hold some space for me.
And for all those you know who are grieving.
Because, if you haven't already, one day you'll be here too (or you'll be here again). And the best possible thing we can do for each other as humans is simply be there for one another when life gets ugly.
And the best thing we can do for ourselves is remember that it won't always be ugly in our life. But that we must make it through the ugly to get to the non-ugly parts. On our own time. At our own pace. For as long as it takes.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Thanksgiving
I hope you're all surrounded by loved ones today. If you're missing a loved one, my heart is with you. Holidays are hard when people are missing. Especially the first time (but I think they're always hard...this is my 7th Thanksgiving without mom and I still miss her).
This is the first Thanksgiving that I can remember that I haven't made a pecan pie. It was always my dad's favorite, but it's not really any of my family's favorite, so this year it's just pumpkin and apple. That pecan pie is noticeably absent.
Last Thanksgiving, dad looked at me, in the middle of dinner at The Lobster Shop, and said, "I want Michael to write my eulogy so I can hear it." It's a moment burned into my brain. Maybe, somewhere, he knew something none of us knew.
Eleven months later, my dad heard that eulogy. That is also a moment burned in my brain.
Eight weeks ago, I was starting to plan for this Thanksgiving and had started looking for restaurants. I had found that eating out on holidays with dad was a treat for both of us and I was actually looking forward to it just a little (not bad for someone who isn't particularly fond of holidays). Just two weeks later, dad was in the hospital. Twenty-one days after that, he was gone.
This is not how I pictured this Thanksgiving two months ago. But it is what I have been given.
These firsts are hard. But they have to happen. And I will survive this one and all the rest. But there is no way to get around the fact that they are hard.
Today, I'm thankful for a quiet Thanksgiving with my four boys. I'm thankful Olly and I have all our boys this year and none of them are missing at the table. I'm thankful for the food on our table and the roof over our head. It's our first Thanksgiving in our new home that we worked SO hard for this summer. I'm thankful for all the opportunities that my parents gave me which helped allow me to have this life. They are gone, but I live on. My brother lives on. Our children live on. And in each of us, a part of my parents live on.
It's still shocking to try and reconcile that both my parents are gone. This morning I stood in the cold sun on my beloved deck. I looked up at those big protective trees. I listened to the birds chirp. I fed my friendly chipmunk (his name is Frederick by the way. Yep...he's officially part of the family. ;) ). And the tears welled up. A lifetime of memories ran through my head. But I also feel, very clearly, that my parents are together today. And I feel their protection too. This will all settle in time. But today it's still raw. And that's okay.
Tomorrow, we place dad's ashes with mom's. The name plate on their niche will soon read both names. It's such vivid proof that I'm an orphan. But the world will keep rotating on its axis. Even though nothing will ever be the same for me. But that's the way life works.
I will survive this "first" just like all the rest. More hot coals behind me. I'll get through all the ones still in front of me down the road. Just one at a time.
I hope you all have a wonderful day surrounded by love. And that you have an abundance of things to be thankful for in your life. :)
This is the first Thanksgiving that I can remember that I haven't made a pecan pie. It was always my dad's favorite, but it's not really any of my family's favorite, so this year it's just pumpkin and apple. That pecan pie is noticeably absent.
Last Thanksgiving, dad looked at me, in the middle of dinner at The Lobster Shop, and said, "I want Michael to write my eulogy so I can hear it." It's a moment burned into my brain. Maybe, somewhere, he knew something none of us knew.
Eleven months later, my dad heard that eulogy. That is also a moment burned in my brain.
Eight weeks ago, I was starting to plan for this Thanksgiving and had started looking for restaurants. I had found that eating out on holidays with dad was a treat for both of us and I was actually looking forward to it just a little (not bad for someone who isn't particularly fond of holidays). Just two weeks later, dad was in the hospital. Twenty-one days after that, he was gone.
This is not how I pictured this Thanksgiving two months ago. But it is what I have been given.
These firsts are hard. But they have to happen. And I will survive this one and all the rest. But there is no way to get around the fact that they are hard.
Today, I'm thankful for a quiet Thanksgiving with my four boys. I'm thankful Olly and I have all our boys this year and none of them are missing at the table. I'm thankful for the food on our table and the roof over our head. It's our first Thanksgiving in our new home that we worked SO hard for this summer. I'm thankful for all the opportunities that my parents gave me which helped allow me to have this life. They are gone, but I live on. My brother lives on. Our children live on. And in each of us, a part of my parents live on.
It's still shocking to try and reconcile that both my parents are gone. This morning I stood in the cold sun on my beloved deck. I looked up at those big protective trees. I listened to the birds chirp. I fed my friendly chipmunk (his name is Frederick by the way. Yep...he's officially part of the family. ;) ). And the tears welled up. A lifetime of memories ran through my head. But I also feel, very clearly, that my parents are together today. And I feel their protection too. This will all settle in time. But today it's still raw. And that's okay.
Tomorrow, we place dad's ashes with mom's. The name plate on their niche will soon read both names. It's such vivid proof that I'm an orphan. But the world will keep rotating on its axis. Even though nothing will ever be the same for me. But that's the way life works.
I will survive this "first" just like all the rest. More hot coals behind me. I'll get through all the ones still in front of me down the road. Just one at a time.
I hope you all have a wonderful day surrounded by love. And that you have an abundance of things to be thankful for in your life. :)
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