Grief

It's been 6 weeks since Mum died. I am navigating my way thru uncharted waters--and there's a lot of water because tears are still so close to the surface. I am simultaneously surprised and not surprised. I've experienced deaths of family, friends, dogs in expected and unexpected or tragic circumstances. I was a Hospice bereavement counselor; I've had official training! But you only have one mother.

I got pulled over by a police officer on Saturday for an expired inspection sticker. I was holding it together until he asked, "Is there some reason you didn't get your car inspected in December?" 

And then I dissolved into a puddle of tears.

I have a piece of paper from him. I'm not sure if there's a fine attached to it, or not. I know that I have until February 10th to get my car inspected. So I will add that to THE LIST of all the stuff I have to do in the wake of her death. 

Note to self: Smile and say "fine" when someone asks how I'm doing. Say "wonderful" when someone asks about my Christmas holiday. Parrot back "Happy New Year" when someone says that. Get out of bed, when I don't want to. (The dogs help with that one).  :-)

I read a post, originally from Reddit, in response to  the question, How do you cope with the passing of someone you are close to?   I found comfort in the answer:

Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out. Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

*****

I am able to go minutes, sometime a couple hours, and not think about her. And then I see something that reminds me of her, and my first thought is to call or email and then I remember . . . and another wave comes. 

I find comfort in my dogs and in having a cup of tea. That's what I want; comfort. I know that Mum, even after 30+ years, still missed her mother, and father, and sister. I always made sure to be with her on my grandmother's birthday, so that she wasn't alone. I don't think the sense of loss ever goes away because it's so permanent. 

I was googling Anderson Cooper's thing on dogs for a  client, and found this interview about grief, with Liam Neeson 

Favourite quotes:

"There's no timeline for grief; there's no clock for how long you're supposed to grieve for somebody. It takes many different forms from many different people. And it can go on for an entire lifetime, obviously." ~Anderson Cooper

In answer about what surprised him about grieving, he answered: "I was surprised by the outpouring and well being and good wishes that I received from people; just a wonderful feeling of 'Yes, this terrible thing has happened, but we're all connected . . . and people say, 'We feel your grief.'"

It's always validating to hear it from other people. "You're not alone." We all grieve eventually. None of us is getting off the planet alive, so however we do it, it's going to happen. Mum just had a quicker exit via car accident, than an illness--which she would have hated. "I don't do sick."  So I am feeling a bit better, having written this. I've written other blog posts, not published, because I don't want to be a downer, especially during the holiday season. But--holidays are over. And who's reading my little blog anyway, when I have the dedicated dog blog, now? So, my 2 cents on grief and grieving . . . .

A letter

I answered a query from Peter Shankman's HARO (Help A Reporter Out). It's a service that links up reporters to sources for stories they're working on. Anyway, I've answered a few queries & then one came in today about grieving the loss of a pet. So here's what I wrote:

2 days before my birthday in January, my dog Barkley, died at the age of 15 & 1/2. I was traveling and knew when I got home that I would pick her up from the kennel and take her to be put down. She had started having seizures and couldn't stand or walk by herself.

6 weeks later, I lost her son, Remi, who was 13 & 1/2. Unlike Barkley, I had no warning and was rushing him to the vet. Congestive heart failure. I had to let him go.

This time last year, I remember sitting outside with them both thinking that it would be my last autumn with Barkley. I had assumed that Remi would live to be 15 like his mother.

I have lost friends & family members--the grief I have felt does not compare to losing my dogs. Barkley was with me at the end of my 20's into my 40's. They both had a life-expectancy of 12 years, so everyday after that I felt lucky to have them. I would appreciate those quiet moments with Barkley sitting under my feet as I watched TV or read. Remi loved to be massaged. During those last few years as they got older, I would often think: There will be a time when they won't be here. So it made me appreciate the moment even more.

I am still surprised sometimes when the grief returns. I have stopped thinking that I should be over it. Pushing it away only prolongs it. I miss the tangibles of being with them. I miss never calling their names in the yard. I miss hearing Remi make his moaning happy sound when I massaged him. I miss Barkley smiling. Yes, she really did.

All those things I miss. Jill Bolte Taylor recounts in her book My Stroke of Insight how when she thinks of her dog she feels the warm fuzzies, but can also go into a sense of loss because he died. It's both: love and loss. All very bittersweet.

So here's my advice:

Be with your pet when it's time for them to go. Don't leave it to strangers, it adds to your pet's fear and confusion. Let them see you last. It's the hardest thing I've had to do, but it was the right and loving thing to do for my faithful companions.

The homeopathic remedy Ignatia is for grief. Take it. It really does help. It works for animals as well.

Recognize from the beginning that the very nature of having a pet is that you will most likely outlive them. Appreciate the time you do have with them. Love them and cherish them as much as they do you.

Doing something creative in honor of their memory helps to channel the grief into something constructive: a scrapbook, photo album, pillow, etc.

Give yourself time to grieve before jumping into getting another pet. The new one deserves your unfettered attention.

It really does get better with time. I think of them and smile. I am so grateful for their presence in my life.