Why is it that I think that worrying about something will affect the circumstances of the thing I'm worrying about?
It's as though the more I worry about it, the more I think I can push the situation to go the way I want.
My siblings and I talk a lot about worrying and why we worry. Like A LOT. As in a couple of times a week.
It's a good thing I come from a family of six children so we can rotate our calls to each other and no one ends up being burnt out from the constant chatter of one person over and over. What do we worry about? Besides our children, most of whom are now young adults and tell us not to worry about them, we worry about our wonderful parents who are in their eighties. We all live within a hour or two of where my parents live and only out of love do we wonder if they need more of our help.
To say that my parents are independent and free spirited is an understatement but that is also what makes them so charming and so resistant to our offers of help. I'm sure your family is much the same as ours where aging and illness are issues that are now at the top of the worry list. It's a bit of a juggling act trying to know when to offer assistance and when to leave it alone and let it work itself out.
Lots of people say that worry is a waste and I suppose that's true but it doesn't feel that way when you are actively worrying about people you care about.
Worry Beads
Usually worry starts with my thoughts and then as I start thinking about a situation, I unfortunately let myself get ahead to something that hasn't happened yet and maybe it won't ever happen but I still think to myself "What if that happens?" Do you do this too? Or am I in a class by myself?
When my thought process starts going round and round, stuck on a thought, I find I have to apply the mental brakes on myself and distract myself with some other activity. If I don't stop thinking about the "what if's", then the worrying will affect my mood; as in getting a very intense headache.
At that moment I realize the negative effects of worrying: all that thinking, all that concern, all that energy focused on a certain situation, doesn't change whether it will happen. Not one little bit. In the meantime, I've made myself a an awful wreck. Not. good. at. all.
Just as the repetition of handling the beads on a string of worry beads can be calming and healing so does saying positive affirmations to yourself. Affirmations can help guide you to inner peace. Sometimes I say; "Worry is a waste." "Worry is a waste." and other times I repeat "Resist worry. Resist Fear." or "I am safe."
Most of the time my affirmations go a long way to making me feel better about whatever is going on and when they don't I know I can always grab my trusty phone and know that an understanding sibling is just a call away!
Yesterday was a snow day in Washington, DC with the local and federal governments shut down and people resigning themselves to once again bundle up and go out and shove and clear their cars of winter's one two punch: ice and snow.
Before I braved the outdoors, I indulgently hung out in my pajamas and worked on the computer, answering emails and checking out Twitter for Oscar gossip. I also made use of my snow day by tackling a large stack of magazines in my home office and in hopes of ridding myself of some unnecessary clutter.
I came upon an old 2007 Town & Country magazine which featured a special section on grieving. Ah! This must be the reason why I had saved this issue I said to myself. I remember being surprised at the time that I bought the magazine that Town & Country was tackling such an uncomfortable subject since most of its articles are about lighter subjects such as traveling, beauty and celebrity trends. But in this particular issue, I found an informative and insightful section on dealing with grief.
A column about grief and loss titled "How To Comfort" by Kate Lardner popped out for me upon rereading the section. Here are a few to consider:
-- "We live in a culture that is afraid of illness and death. There's judgment from every direction, and it slows down the healing process. Trust your own experience, and be with people who aren't telling you to pull yourself together." ~ Cynthia O'Neal, cofounder of Friends in Deed, a crisis center in New York City.
-- "I was terrified of my sons' impending deaths from AIDS. What helped the most when they were dying was to do whatever I could to open up my heart, instead of shutting off from the fear of the anticipated loss. I talked to mothers in hospitals who were visiting sons with AIDS." ~ Brenda Freiberg, chair emeritus, AIDS Project, Los Angeles.
-- "Be with a grieving person quietly, and offer the stability of your presence, which is not the same as trying to 'make it better.' Much more important for the bereaved is to feel the actual loss in the moment. Human beings are amazingly resilient; we think we won't be able to survive, but we will. Grief, the hurt, is a good sign." ~ Acharya Eric Spiegel, a Buddhist teacher in New York City.
-- "Think twice before telling anyone that they ever get over the loss of somebody close; on a feeling level you never truly get over it." ~ Sanford Pepper, M.D. San Francisco psychiatrist.
For the past several weeks, I have been on a listening binge and it feels healing.
There are a number of family members and friends who are going through various kinds of difficult personal situations and, in trying to be helpful, I have been listening to what they tell me they want to talk about, in particular what it feels like to be in their crisis, what they really wish they could do to solve it and how frustrating it is to have the situation go on and on.
Listening may seem as though it is a passive activity but it is definitely not. I'm not just sitting in my chair staring vacantly at the person talking and letting my eyes roam around the room, thinking about something else that is totally unrelated to the person's thoughts nor am I just holding my phone up to my ear, doodling away on a piece of paper or reading something on my computer screen instead of listening to their words.
Pablo Picasso's The Flowers of Peace
I am listening to hear what they intend to say but are not exactly saying. Listening is another way to show I care, that I am interested in them and invested in their troubles as I focus on the backstory of their words. As in when they say they are angry about something, I sometimes get the feeling that they really mean to say they are scared. I'm listening with my heart as I'm trying to understand and support. It's an emotional exchange because we need each other to help figure out what our crazy creative lives are all about and sometimes we are too close to interpret what's going on.
I also know that they would do the same for me if I needed to talk to them about my life and that creates a solid unspoken feeling of trust. We have each other's backs so to speak.
Listening is a time to learn about the other person for they are pouring out their thoughts, emotions or sometimes both to you. I have known some of these people for decades and am still learning new things about them and they way they feel about life. I try to imagine what it would feel like to be the other person who is trying to deal with whatever the situation is. And if I'm doing listening well, which I hope I am, then I sometimes feel as if I'm going through the problem too.
If you can't think of anything to say to someone who is handling a rough situation, you can always offer to support them through the gift of listening.
I never know when I am going to read or hear something that I might want to use in writing a future blog post so I try to always carry a small notebook with me. On the times that I have forgotten my notebook, I have written notes on the back of envelopes, cocktail napkins and business cards which then creates this messy pile of stray notes.
For now, the small spiral notebook I am using is almost full and it caused me recently to flip through the worn pages to check and see if I had missed anything that might be helpful to myself and others who are trying to rebuild their lives after a loss or strengthen their resilience when facing life's unexpected trials.
And then there it was. Handwritten notes from a sweet conversation I had this past summer on the beach with a young woman in her twenties. She had lost her grandfather and an uncle within a few months of each other. We had just met and were casually talking about ourselves. I told her about Cry, Laugh, Heal and surprisingly she then began telling me about her experiences with loss.
I write about this conversation today after so many months because I was struck by the common thread in her thoughts and the fact that if I closed my eyes and forgot about her age she could have been a member of my support group made up of people much older than herself. She was voicing many of the same feelings older people have expressed after losing a loved one: the need to talk, the shock and confusion and the contradictions brought by the pain of loss.
"People know you are going through an awful time of it and yet they talk to you as though nothing has happened," she said remarking on what it was like to go back to school after attending the funerals. "I think people react this way because it's far too messy for them and they also think they're upsetting you. And they definitely don't think about how you might want to cry and release your feelings."
She continued talking quietly about this experience and said after a period of time following the losses she knew she needed to be part of a trusted discussion addressing grief issues. The loss of her uncle and her grandfather made her realize that she needed to join a support group and she was so glad that she did. She wasn't sure what she would find or what it would be like, but she came away surprised and also curious about the amazing dynamic that had occurred in her group.
"Isn't it weird how you can find yourself in a support group, among people who you have never met before, people who are strangers, and you start speaking honestly from your heart about how you really feel and what you are really thinking about. I found that I was saying things to strangers that I couldn't tell my loved ones, the people who have known me for most of my life. And for some reason the other people in my group felt that way too. And it worked. I felt I was with new friends."
Our discussion about life and loss was not for long; I would say at the most it was about 10 to 15 minutes. But within that short window of time while we talked, I felt her willingness to expose her vulnerability on the contradictions of these grizzly subjects of loss and resilience was amazing.
Here's why: in her young soul she had dug deep and found strength in a truth that sometimes takes many of us (myself included) a life time to discover. That truth?
Her words say it best: "Sometimes beauty comes out of pain. I found that something good can come out of something tragic and that's hard for people to understand. I think people are afraid to say something good came out of someone's death because we are afraid it would be seen as though we were glad that it happened when of course that is not the truth at all. No one, no one wants anyone to feel that pain but it's surprising to discover that a light can come out of darkness."
We like to think that the people we love will remain with us forever.
No one wants to think of a time or be faced with a time when a loved one gets sick, is in an accident or worse and will no longer be here.
But unfortunately, sadly and even tragically, life does not work the way we want, as hard as we always try to will it to work our way.
The reason why I am drawn to the haunting song, "Over You," sung here by award-winning country music singer Miranda Lambert, who also co-wrote this song with her husband, Blake Shelton, is the line, "But you went away. How dare you? I miss you."
I don't care how many stages of grief you go through and which way you go through them, those words are universal in their sentiment. I don't think of the words in an angry way; just more of a human plea to the person to come back because it's lonely without them.
It's not a decision that every woman has the opportunity to make, but I stand and applaud her courage and wish her a future of wellness.
Faced with medical information from her doctors that she had an 87 percent risk of developing breast cancer and a 50 percent risk of developing ovarian cancer because she carried the BRCA1 gene, she decided to take control of her health and be proactive. She decided at the young age of 37 to have a double mastectomy which means she had both of her currently healthy breasts surgically removed.
Jolie didn't want to wait around for the cancer to come and claim her.
Jolie, the winner of an Academy Award, two Screen Actors Guild and three Golden Globe awards, wrote an op-ed piece which appeared in yesterday's New York Times about her medical decision and I think every woman who read it paused afterwards and thanked God for their good health and blessings and maybe at the same time they also thought about someone they had already lost to breast or ovarian cancer or is in treatment.
Whether a mother or a daughter, grandparent, sibling, or friend, chances are very good that almost every New York Times and Cry, Laugh, Heal reader knows someone affected by fbomb cancer.
Actress Angelina Jolie and her partner, Actor Brad Pitt, with their six children
I imagine that every woman, when first diagnosed with breast cancer has two burning questions, "What am I going to do?" and "Will I lose my breast?" As the mother of six children and the daughter of a woman who died from cancer at age 56, Jolie said she had all the information she needed to face her scary health dilemma, stare down her future and go forward.
Her New York Times op-ed is amazing and for me, her most inspirational words came in the last two sentences:
"Life comes with many challenges. The ones that should not scare us are the ones we can take on and take control of."
Cancer can many times take us to the land of grief and, believe me, it is not a place anyone wants to visit. But once we find ourselves thrown there, we can and must find a way to get through the tears and the pain and work to find a new way of living our lives.
It is about trust, and love, and being human. And it is most of all about hope.
Today is dreaded Tax Day which means that people in the United States must file individual tax returns with the Internal Revenue Service.
Not to worry for those who aren't prepared to file your taxes today. The IRS allows you to file an extension which gives you until October 15 to file. Thank goodness right? There is more time if you need it!
Taxes are confusing under even the most normal of circumstances. According to CBS News, the U.S. tax code is more than 73,000 pages long. Just figuring out what to pay
eats up an estimated 6.1 billion hours of our time each year.
But if you are filing as a widow or widower this year for the first time, I send you my condolences. I've been there and it's a hard place to be. You are deep in grief and you just want everything to stop. Yet the world around you continues to go on and it's jarring to face reality. Taxes are just one more thing from a list of many that are now your responsibility as the surviving spouse.
With all of the emotional upheaval you are trying to deal with since your loss, I'm sure taxes are the very last thing on your mind. Or at least they were for me.
Maybe your spouse was in charge of this responsibility and all you had to do was sign the papers. Or maybe you were involved and helped gather papers, receipts and other financial essentials to prepare your taxes with your spouse. Either way, your financial future is now in your hands.
But the good news is that there are lots of resources out there and if you feel overwhelmed by doing your own taxes then it's okay to get or ask for help. Give yourself a break.
You aren't alone in your confusion. I get help with my taxes every year and I feel good to have found an accountant I can trust. Tax laws change all the time and there is no way the average person can keep up with them. I use and need an accountant now and even before my husband died because neither one of us was good at that kind of thing. We would gather our receipts and statements together, talk about some stuff we weren't sure of and then make an appointment to talk to the accountant.
The first year after my husband died was particularly difficult. Going backwards in the checkbook and other financial papers forced me to relive the year and all of the ups and down of hospitalization, doctor's appointments and other events that I didn't really want to think about. But the next year was a little easier and the next year after that a little easier too.
It takes time to figure out what works for you. I did gain confidence in setting up my own system and keeping track of the household expenses and I bet you will too!
They say that sharing is caring and I care so much about my readers that when I read the below post yesterday from the Bereaved Partners Support Group (@BereavedPartner on Twitter), I couldn't wait to share it with you.
So many things in this article resonated with me: especially the idea of stepping into your fears and working through them to find something new in your changed life.
Healing and recovery happen. It may not feel as though this natural process is happening to you but it is. You must believe in a new way of life and even a new point of view.
It doesn't mean that you won't miss your loved one. You will. But it will not feel as raw as it did in the beginning. I can't tell you how many people would tell me that my husband would not want me to live my life in a sad way; in a way of constantly feeling pain. I knew they were right but I didn't feel that way. I wasn't in that place yet. And then one day it did make sense to me and I did realize that it was okay to enjoy my life.
It is okay to buy some beautiful flowers. It is okay to go out and laugh with friends. It is okay to open myself up to new opportunities.
Please read the below story. I love it because it is so hopeful!!
Awakening
One of our group attendees passed on this passage to us to share with others. We encourage you to read it. It is eye-opening, grounding and beautiful…
BPSG Team
Awakening
A time comes in your life when you finally get it… when, in the midst of all your fears and insanity, you stop dead in your tracks and somewhere the voice inside your head cries out… ENOUGH! Enough fighting and crying and blaming and struggling to hold on.
Then, like a child quieting down after a tantrum, you blink back your tears and begin to look at the world through new eyes.
This is your awakening.
You realise it’s time to stop hoping and waiting for something to change, or for happiness, safety and security to magically appear over the next horizon. You realise that in the real world there aren’t always fairy tale endings, and that any guarantee of “happily ever after” must begin with you… and in the process a sense of serenity is born of acceptance.
You awaken to the fact that you are not perfect and that not everyone will always love, appreciate or approve of who or what you are… and that’s OK. They are entitled to their own views and opinions.
You learn the importance of loving and championing yourself… and in the process a sense of new found confidence is born of self-approval. You stop complaining and blaming other people for the things they did to you – or didn’t do for you – and you learn that the only thing you can really count on is the unexpected.
You learn that people don’t always say what they mean or mean what they say and that not everyone will always be there for you and that everything isn’t always about you.
So, you learn to stand on your own and to take care of yourself… and in the process a sense of safety and security is born of self-resilience.
You stop judging and pointing fingers and you begin to accept people as they are and to overlook their shortcomings and human frailties… and in the process a sense of peace and contentment is born of forgiveness.
You learn to open up to new worlds and different points of view. You begin reassessing and redefining who you are and what you really stand for.
You learn the difference between wanting and needing and you begin to discard the doctrines and values you’ve outgrown, or should never have bought into to begin with.
You learn that there is power and glory in creating and contributing and you stop manoeuvring through life merely as a “consumer” looking for your next fix.
You learn that principles such as honesty and integrity are not the out-dated ideals of a bygone era, but the mortar that holds together the foundation upon which you must build a life.
You learn that you don’t know everything, its not your job to save the world and that you can’t teach a pig to sing. You learn that the only cross to bear is the one you choose to carry and that martyrs get burned at the stake.
Then you learn about love. You learn to look at relationships as they really are and not as you would have them be. You learn that alone does not mean lonely.
You stop trying to control people, situations and outcomes. You learn to distinguish between guilt and responsibility and the importance of setting boundaries and learning to say NO.
You also stop working so hard at putting your feelings aside, smoothing things over and ignoring your needs.
You learn that your body really is a temple. You begin to care for it and treat it with respect. You begin to eat a balanced diet, drink more water, and take more time to exercise.
You learn that being tired fuels doubt, fear and uncertainty and so you take more time to rest. And, just as food fuels the body, laughter fuels our souls. So you take more time to laugh and to play.
You learn that, for the most part, you get in life what you believe you deserve, and that much of life truly is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
You learn that anything worth achieving is worth working for and that wishing for something to happen is different than working toward making it happen.
More importantly, you learn that in order to achieve success you need direction, discipline and perseverance. You also learn that no one can do it all alone, and that it’s OK to risk asking for help.
You learn the only thing you must truly fear is fear itself. You learn to step right into and through your fears because you know that whatever happens you can handle it and to give in to fear is to give away the right to live life on your own terms.
You learn to fight for your life and not to squander it living under a cloud of impending doom.
You learn that life isn’t always fair, you don’t always get what you think you deserve and that sometimes bad things happen to unsuspecting, good people… and you learn not to always take it personally.
You learn that nobody’s punishing you and everything isn’t always somebody’s fault. It’s just life happening. You learn to admit when you are wrong and to build bridges instead of walls.
You learn that negative feelings such as anger, envy and resentment must be understood and redirected or they will suffocate the life out of you and poison the universe that surrounds you.
You learn to be thankful and to take comfort in many of the simple things we take for granted, things that millions of people upon the earth can only dream about: a full refrigerator, clean running water, a soft warm bed, a long hot shower.
Then, you begin to take responsibility for yourself by yourself and you make yourself a promise to never betray yourself and to never, ever settle for less than your heart’s desire.
You make it a point to keep smiling, to keep trusting, and to stay open to every wonderful possibility.
You hang a wind chime outside your window so you can listen to the wind.
Finally, with courage in your heart, you take a stand, you take a deep breath, and you begin to design the life you want to live as best you can.
When I write in my posts to you about rebuilding our lives after a loss, I don't mean to make it sound as though I suddenly woke up one morning and decided "today is the day I'm going to try to put together a new life."
Instead, what I really mean to say is that the step-by-step process of figuring out what to do after your loved one has died is a much more subtle process that usually happens slowly, almost as though you were putting your toes into a cold ocean and getting used to the temperature.
There is a lot of trial and error and I still find it to be scary. Yet, when I try something I have never tried before and it turns out to be a good experience, it is definitely a confidence booster. There have been times when some financial decisions I made by myself were not exactly the right ones, but then there were other good and solid decisions which lead to funny experiences, such as giving a party by myself and driving from Washington, DC to Connecticut with my son for the first time. I learned a lot about myself and my comfort levels.
It's a weird time because the person who you used to talk to about plans, ideas and dreams is no longer there and you are flying solo. Out there pretty much all by your lonesome. So yes, you can basically do whatever you want to do, but do you really know what you want to do? Not really.
Do I want to stay in the house we shared? Do I want to stay in this city? Do I want to keep the person's belongings? How do I want to spend my free time? What do I want to do next? These and thousands of other questions are spinning around in your brain which just feels like Jell-O.
Nine years later, it still is scary but not as much as it used to be. It took a long time for me to land in this place but I think I have finally given myself permission to live my life; to try things that are new and to not feel guilty about enjoying good times. The sad and bittersweet times still visit me but not as often as they did in the beginning of my grief journey.
Today I think I can truthfully say I'm daring me to be more of myself, whatever that may be.
And that's a good kind of scary.
As Joan Juliet Buck writes in the following essay that was published in the October 2012 issue of Harper's Bazaar magazine: be bold in your life choices because true audacity can never be overlooked. (For background purposes, you should know Ms. Buck's father was the American film producer Jules Buck).
Marilyn Monroe
Daring
By Joan Juliet Buck
Harper's Bazaar Magazine
10/24/12
I was with my parents at Idlewild Airport when Marilyn Monroe came toward us, escorts on each side, a big coat over her arm. She'd been in one of my father's movies, so she stopped to hug him and shake my mother's hand, and continued along her way. As he watched her wriggle down the corridor, my father shook his head and said, "Christ, still no girdle." The retreating bottom looked soft, uncontrolled, and very present, as if a cat was lolling inside the tight skirt of her dress. In those days, women's lower torsos were carefully caged up in rubber mesh. I was five, and I was shocked.
Daring is about shocking children while you set free something that was seriously caged up. It's about breaking rules. The first rule that everyone breaks -- in art, fashion and conversation -- is modesty. (You don't believe that about conversation? Try going without "I" for two hours.) Marilyn Monroe could challenge the zeitgeist and perturb the composure of men by forgetting her underwear. My generation challenged the zeitgeist in the name of freedom, but it was really to perturb men: political and social acts were secondary to our true work of raising our hemlines, ditching our bras, unbuttoning our blouses, neglecting to shave our armpits, and consistently failing to grasp what the word sheer truly meant.
It's harder to shock today, when the actual part of a body that a garment might hide is often a random choice, and the Brazilian wax had to invented to disguise any evidence of the bull's-eye. In the past few years, shoes had to carry most of the burden of shocking, but by now the sight of young women six and a half feet tall holding on to walls and doorways so as not to fall off the Trump City edifices on their feet are no longer remarkable. No herd animal is ever daring.
Acts of daring are always committed alone; even if they lead you to another person. Once I kissed a man who was just a friend. The only reason was that I couldn't understand why he had not yet tried to kiss me. It set off something that lasted for decades. I haven't tried that again with other men friends; truly daring acts only happen once.
The daring are angels and geniuses and demons and divas and clowns, and sometimes also patsies, stooges, and fools. Daring is not safe. The impresario Serge Diaghilev said to the poet and painter Jean Cocteau, "Amaze me." He did not say, "Reassure me," "Tell me I'm right," "Admire me," or "Stay in line and you'll get a nice pension." Diaghilev could have been speaking for every good agent, every real gallery owner, every disconcerting collector, every casting director, even, I hate to say this but we have evidence, every TV judge.
Art demands daring. It demands the new, the untested, the unproven. And if you try, you will at some point fall on your face, just like the first wearers of impossible shoes. My fashion life was born from little moments of daring; asking a new acquaintance called Karl Lagerfeld, "What are those brooches on your lapel?" Pretending I could speak Italian so John Fairchild would send me to Rome for Women's Wear Daily. Saying, "Why not?" when I was offered French Vogue. It was daring, also, to let go when I realized how little the job suited my character. I had no idea that would leadd to performing in black-box basement theaters and telling stories on the road, though I could have guessed; I love the unknown and am not afraid of ridicule.
The moment of greatest fear comes just before going onstage, because an audience is out there, and shared time is real time, no rewinds or rewrites. The tension between wanting to flee and needing to stay and pierce through the fear is one of the most uncomfortable and delicious moments I know. There are pills against stage fright; I would like a pill to get stage fright more often.
I believe, like the Surrealists, that everything creative arrives without calculation, but you must be prepared. You need the skills to transmit unconscious impulses, but you also have to be humble. The moment I think what an ace I am, I'm lost. This is not an advantage in New York; where modesty is not welcome. Performing has taught me that the second time I do something the same way, I'm developing a routine, and a routine is just shtick, the performing equivalent of a pink-slime hot dog.
You cannot standardize the moment when you break out of expectation and biography into something real. You have to be uncontrolled and very present. That's what I learned from watching Marilyn Monroe walk away when I was five.
We must not be afraid to offer comfort and empathy.
I know it's hard to step outself of yourself and reach out to others in pain. To empathize requires introspection which is not a very popular exercise these days. Introspection requires you to stop thinking about yourself and imagine what another person is feeling in a situation you would not want to happen to you or anyone else.
I know it is only a few days until Christmas, a time when Christians traditionally celebrate the birth of our Savior, Jesus Christ, and people would prefer to surround themselves in the comfort of a commercial Christmas, a Christmas of unending presents and idyllic settings full of twinkling lights, freshly baked cookies and smiles and holiday joy.
But there is also another Christmas, equally as powerful: a Christmas belonging to those newly bereaved, a Christmas belonging to those whose child has died.
Please pause this Christmas and think of these people who are desperate in their sorrow. No matter what the reason, a shooting, a disease, an accident or a medical condition, these parents should not be ignored because they may make us feel uncomfortable.
To truly be filled with the spirit of Christmas, we must give of ourselves. Though it truly is every parent's nightmare, please do not look away from those who are grieving the loss of a child. Besides the deep pain they are experiencing, there is also an outrage that they are feeling; an outrage that they will never know what the child might have become.
They need our help. They need to know they are not alone.
Please read the following Washington Post story written by a mother who writes of her raw feelings following the death of her child. May it inspire all of us to be courageous in the face of grief:
Courtesy of CBS News
The death of a child: A parent’s worst nightmare By Ann Hood, Published: The Washington Post, December 21
Ann Hood is a novelist and short-story writer living in Providence, R.I.
We are stunned. We are outraged. As a nation, we are questioning laws on gun control, questioning how such a
thing can happen. These are all appropriate responses to the tragedy in Newtown,
Conn.
But there is a repercussion to all this that will continue long after laws
are changed and life, unbelievably, gets back to normal: the grief of the
parents of the 20 children killed. How many times have I heard that this
is a parent’s worst nightmare? As someone who has lived the nightmare of losing
a child, I know that the enormous hole left behind remains forever.
My daughter, Grace, was not killed by a gun. She died suddenly at age 5 from a virulent form of strep. As I
stood stunned in a church at her memorial, one of the hardest things I heard
someone say was, “I’m going to go home and hug my child a little tighter.” Well,
good for you, I thought. I’m going to go home and scream.
What can be said in light of such grief? What can you do? The problem is that
no one can give the parents what they want most: their child. Long after the
memorials fade and the casseroles stop coming, that child is still dead, and
those parents are still grieving.
I offer here what I have learned about grief in the 10 years since my Gracie
died:
I learned that platitudes don’t work. Time doesn’t heal. She is not in a
better place. God does give us more than we can bear sometimes. I have learned
that there is more power in a good strong hug than in a thousand meaningful
words. I have learned that even in the face of loss, clothes still get dirty and
bills still need to get paid. Friends who laundered our socks and answered our
e-mails, who mowed our lawn and put gas in our cars, helped us — a lot. The
friend who came one afternoon and went through Grace’s backpack, carefully
storing her kindergarten workbook and papers, hanging her art on the
refrigerator and her raincoat on its hook in the mudroom, had more courage than
the ones who told me to call anytime.
Some friends sat with me day after day, week after week and, yes, month after
month, and let me talk while they listened. I told the story of Grace’s last day
over and over, as if by telling it I could make sense of what had happened to
her, to us. But there is no sense to be made of such tragedy, and when I
realized that, they let me wail and bang my fists and curse.
As time passes, people return to their ordinary lives, while grieving parents
no longer have ordinary lives. They are redefining themselves, and they are at a
loss at how to move forward. There is a woman who still sends me a card on
Grace’s birthday and every Mother’s Day, who sent cards weekly for more than a
year, a lifeline to a grieving mother. The people who even now, a decade later,
still say Grace’s name, still comment on her quirky style and artistic talents
and love of the Beatles, continue to help me through my days, simply by
remembering her.
How easy it is to look away from grief, as if it might be contagious, or too
frightening to face. But the Newtown parents have a difficult, lifelong journey
through grief ahead of them. Somehow, the seasons will change, the anniversaries
will stack up one after the other. They will, unbelievably, smile again. They
will make dinner and change jobs and buy clothes and celebrate and travel. They
will go on. But there will always, always, be this grief, softened and dulled
but present every minute of every day.
Do not forget that. Look them in the eye. Take them in your arms, and do not
let them go.
I am comfortable with the fact that part of achieving something in life means taking a risk. I'm not talking about a risk to your personal safety or health but an action that is out of your routine and a little out of your comfort zone in your personal or work lives.
I think that living life means that you should take a chance on something you want to achieve. I am watching four extremely talented people in my life right now who are really putting themselves out there and working creatively as well as very hard to accomplish something very big for themselves and it's exciting to watch.
But taking chances, on occasion, means that you also need to be prepared for the idea that it might not work out. That can be okay because I would rather take a chance and find out what happens when I roll the dice on a dream than not take a chance at all.
I feel it's better to look at the information you have, access the risk, and go for it rather than look back later and regret that you didn't try something different or new.
We all suffer setbacks now and then. That's life. The setbacks help us appreciate our triumphs and the hard work, imagination and support that what went into achieving them.
Think about what is really important to you and go from there.
Grief is a journey that sets its own schedule. Some cry, some talk, some paint and some even throw plates or other breakables to get rid of their anger.
Unfortunately, there is no set time for healing.
It is always difficult to adjust to life changing circumstances and face the outside world on your own. But since we are all in this together, it is essential to reach out and extend a helping hand and let others know they are not alone in their journey.
I found the following story by Ken Garfield of Knight Ridder Newspapers and am sharing it with you in the hopes that it will help you smile:
Don't Let Death Have The Last Laugh
By Ken Garfield
Knight Ridder Newspapers
We were on the way to her husband's funeral when my sister turned to me in the limosine and said, "I wonder if I should have worn a black veil."
For just a second, I was taken aback. How could she make a joke at a time like this? Then it hit me. How could she not make a joke at a time like this?
When I realized what a brave and important thing my sister had done, I knew what to say. "We still have time to run into Hecht's and buy one," I joked as the limosine drove on to the chapel.
I never knew how sacred humor could be until tragedy struck our family.
While my 51-year-old sister, Carol, was away on a weekend with cousins, her 56-year-old husband died of an apparent heart attack at their home in Boca Raton, Florida. Eddie was a sweet and generous man who adored my sister. In the last six months of his life, he finally landed a job he loved. When they found my brother-in-law's body in bed, they also found in the kitchen the lunch he had made for work the next day.
The memorial chapel was filled with elderly folks from the condominium complex where he worked and did good deeds for his friends, the tenants. Grief darkened our days, of course. My sister and her husbad, who had chosen not to have children, traveled through life together as soul mates. For one to suddenly lose the other after 26 years broke our hearts.
But just when it seemed as if the darkness was about to overcome us, the light returned in the form of a funny memory or whimsical story.
In his eulogy, my father recalled how Eddie had told Carol that he didn't know where she was going on their next vacation -- but he was going to spend it at home with his beloved ballgames and TV remote control. Carol recalled that the only thing Eddie feared more than a shirt ant tie was a social event to dress up for, and she noted that her home was filled with well-wishers after the funeral.
"Eddie would have hated it," she joked.
People who live with death know that humor helps mourners endure the pain. Brandon Cook, of Hankins & Whittington Funeral Service in Charlotte, NC, said a funny story reminds the bereaved that life is a mixture of emotions.
One story making the round tells of the daughter who had her mother's coffin wheeled into the service after everyone was seated. Mother was late for everything else, the daughter told the mourners, so why shouldn't she be late for this?
If you need encouragement to have a healthy laugh, Cook said, look to Proverbs 17:22: "A cheerful heart is a good medicine."
A hospice chaplain told me that humor becomes truly sacred when it helps you understand that grief doesn't have to have the last word.
I start welling up thinking about my sister facing life alone. Then I'll laugh at a funny story, and the tears subside.
