Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 13, 2023

Time

Time is elusive, yet it ticks by at the same rate for all humanity. We can't bank time. But we can, undoubtedly, squander it. We can't halt time's progression. But we can learn to make the most of it. 


Do you ever wish that you could travel through time to correct past mistakes or clear the future of its obstacles? 


Unfortunately (even if we wanted to), we can't eliminate the messiness of our lives or rewrite history. And while we can influence the future through our choices and actions, only time can tell the real story.


Looking back, one of the things I'm most grateful for is personal growth. Unraveling those parts of myself that I'd forgotten or left behind has brought me to a much happier, fulfilled, and healthier place. 


Yet, as I age, my perception of time keeps evolving because, despite the routine and mundane moments I'd pre-retirement, life seems to be flying by at this stage. The phrase "time's a-wasting" reminds me to tune out the distractions of everyday life and focus on the beauty surrounding me.


"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away."—Maya Angelo.


Whether holding our newborn baby/babies for the first time, witnessing a spectacular sunset or rainbow, being out in nature, or standing on a mountaintop, we remember those moments that took our breath away; we remember the indescribable awe, like time stood still briefly, as we became fully present to notice and appreciate what was before us. In that sense, I agree with Maya Angelo.


But what about those other defining moments that took our breath away by sucker-punching us in the gut, forever changing the direction of our lives in a split second?


One such time for me was in 1987 when my mother suddenly died. 


Time will heal you; time will lessen the sadness," well-meaning friends kept telling me. 


"One of the realities of grief and loss is that the rest of the world seems to keep on going forward while we feel like we have been stopped in our tracks." —Alan Wolfelt. 


 I waited for "time" to do its thing as the world moved on without me. But it was as if time had stood still. 


I couldn't look to the past because it was too painful. I couldn't look into the future because my mother wouldn't be there. If anything, I wanted to go back in time. In other words, I wanted my life to return to how it was before my mother died.


When our life's sand-glass plugs off and traps us in turmoil—even though the grains of our lives will look and feel differently—the sands of time will flow again. We can't see this in the throes of grief. Nor should we. Nevertheless, as we journey out of the valley, we will experience awe, wonder, and joy and live life to the fullest again. 


Thirty-six years have ticked by since my mother died. Although she hasn't moved through time with me, no length of time has erased her from my heart.


Time. It's constantly in motion and stops for no one. 


Time in grief, however, allows us to (slowly) zoom in and greet each milestone in whatever way our emotions present, giving us the means to let go of the past and move into the future with a "new normal" without our loved ones. 


Each breath we take is God's gift of time. Still, how we spend it can be a complicated question. 


We can choose to heal those broken and estranged relationships. We can choose to forgive. (Remember, forgiveness is for ourselves. It's not for the person who hurt us, and not necessarily for reconciliation with that person.) And we can choose to make peace with our past while looking forward to the possibilities time offers us.


 If you are reading this and are struggling, I pray you will find a safe and healthy space to embrace the "now" once again. (Be patient with yourself. Take your time.) 


Saturday, October 9, 2021

COVID-19 Related Grief/Thanksgiving

We've been living in a time of extreme uncertainty and loss, with varying degrees of COVID-related restrictions, pausing life as we know it.


More than a year and a half later, many of us are now fully vaccinated. Yet while some sense of balance has returned, a new variant always seems to loom on the horizon, spiking anxiety and fear, causing hope to diminish once again.


There is a common thread that's bound us together throughout COVID: it's called grief. We have all been touched by it in some capacity or another. Whether we realize it or not, we have all experienced collective grief due to losses. 


While losing a loved one is an irreplaceable, incomparable kind of loss, there have been intangible losses in the pandemic that may have also triggered grief, such as the loss of a job, the loss of a business, the loss of human touch, the loss of wedding plans, the loss of freedom, the loss of hope ... any loss that's valuable to you, needs to also be recognized and acknowledge and mourned in its own unique way.  


But perhaps you have felt (or others have made you feel) that your loss or losses seemed minor or insignificant compared to what others have endured, so you retreated your feelings, you soldiered on and downplayed them because you felt that they weren't grief-worthy, that they weren't valid.


When we sold our Ontario home (in July 2020) and moved to New Brunswick, it brought much change, and those who know me know that I don't adapt well to change. So there were days when my anxiety was heightened, days when I'd cry because I missed my family and friends, days when I just felt concerned about the future. And, let's face it, COVID wasn't a time to socialize and meet new people(and it still isn't).


Consequently, I held back from expressing myself because I felt selfish. I thought: What right do I have to complain when the world is reeling in so much pain and sorrow, when people are losing loved ones, Every. Single. Day. 


Yes, what I was feeling was minor compared to what others were experiencing, but my point is: it doesn't mean my feelings were invalid. 


Nor are your feelings invalid. 


The fact remains: It's been a challenging year and a half. We have all (including the children) been changed by this pandemic in some way or another. On any given day, it has gripped us with fear, anxiety, loneliness, depression, sadness... leaving many forever scarred and likely in mourning for years to come. 


Even though not foolproof, being vaccinated has undoubtedly given some of us a new sense of normalcy, but let's not take for granted what COVID has (and still is) taking from us and that grief is real and personal.


"Give thanks in all circumstances." The Apostle Paul's profound words have never been more crucial as we struggle through pandemic fatigue. So my question is, entering into the fourth wave, with our second Thanksgiving in upheaval, can we find it in our hearts to give thanks? Are we able to go around our table at Thanksgiving, even amid our difficult circumstances, even in the deep agonizing grief and anxiety and fear that we may be feeling, and find something to give thanks for? 


I am thankful to be in a family that supports one another through life's struggles. But as I reflect on the last year and a half, my heart floods with thankfulness for the community family of essential workers who have worked tirelessly to provide the best possible support and care for us. 


And also for the vaccine researchers who have worked long, grueling hours to give us another layer of protection. Because of your diligence, after two long years of being apart, Derick and I were able to safely spend time in Newfoundland visiting family this summer. 


Understandably, many feel despair in turbulent times like these, but we must keep hope alive.


Happy Thanksgiving. 


May God bless you and keep you safe. 


Sunday, April 18, 2021

How Grief Almost Destroyed Our Marriage —Thirty-Four Years Later

Grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly steals from us; it governs our lives in unexpected ways — especially in the death of loved ones. But whether it's a divorce, an illness, a job loss, a betrayal, injustice ... every loss we experience has some form of death attached to it.


August 25, 1987, is a day I will never forget. It's the day my mother suddenly died. It's the day life threw me a massive curveball, shattering my world into a million pieces as shock and numbness and disbelief engulfed my body.


In the aftermath of my mother's passing, it was as if time had stood still. I didn't shed the tears that grief required. I was too consumed with the what-ifs, the should-haves, the going back and forth between anger, blame, and guilt: angry because my mother had left me, guilty for not spending more time with her, and blame for not seeing the warning signs that she was ill.


The tension between Derick and me gradually began to crumble our five-year marriage. I'd put barriers around the world that once made sense, a world that left me shattered and confused. And as grief continued to sap my energy, solitude became my best friend. Yet, I somehow found the strength to get out of bed each day and care for our two children, then ages four years and five months.


It'd been over a year since my mother's death the night one of our BIG fights broke out — the straw that broke the camel's back in our marriage. "Joyce, If you don't seek help, I am leaving you. I can't handle your anger and mood swings anymore. You aren't the same person I married," my husband said through welled-up eyes. 


I was dumbstruck by Derick's words. I shouldn't have been. I mean, we'd stopped communicating. I didn't even consider that he, too, was grieving my mother's loss, compounded with the loss of our relationship. Nor did I realized how much grief was changing me. The only thing I knew was that I was in deep emotional pain, and when Derick couldn't soothe that pain (and believe me, he tried), I'd lash out at him for not caring, for not understanding. 


In short: Derick's words jarred me into seeking help to mourn my mother's loss that fateful night, and in turn, our marriage began to heal. But my understanding of grief and loss back then was only a "skim over" compared to the deep inner work I've done on grief and loss in the last ten years.


Grief is a personal journey. We all grieve differently because we all experience things differently. And while grief isn't linear or tied to a specific timeline, my experiences have taught me that, for our bodies to heal, grief does need to be heard; grief does need to be felt.


Having grown up in an era where crying was a sign of weakness, where culturally we were taught to be strong, to keep our emotions private, I was ill-equipped to allow grief in or even know how to process the pain of losing my mother because I was still trying to be that strong little girl of my youth.


Still today, there appears to be a gloominess associated with grief and loss in our culture, a clumsiness that causes us to turn away from our emotional pain, forcing us to squash it down as if it doesn't exist rather than embracing the discomfort of it. Until it becomes intolerable, that is. Until it begins to wreak havoc on our well-being and blocks our ability to fully embrace life. 


I am not saying that we ever have to be okay with the curveballs this life throws at us. Life is terrible and unfair sometimes. What I am saying is this: The transformation that comes from being present with our pain, from transforming our grief into growth, far outweighs the repercussions of remaining stuck in grief, of closing our heart off to it. 


Rest assured, if we do this, if we allow grief to have its way with us, we will find peace again, we find joy again, we find laughter again, and we will find a way to live away from our "old normal" and live into our "new normal," with our loved ones forever embedded in our heart. 


On April 10th, Derick and I celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary! It seems inconceivable now that, thirty-four years ago, unresolved grief and emotional pain were the driving forces that almost wrecked our marriage because grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly stole from me and governed my life in unexpected ways. I shudder to think what my life would have looked like had I not chosen to  heal.


Sunday, December 20, 2020

Middle-Aged Orphans—The Forgotten Grievers

I am not the same person I was when my mom died. I am not the same person I was when my dad died. I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am forever learning, forever growing, forever transitioning into a better version of myself, striving to accept life as a school rather than a victim of what it has taken from me. 


At the age of twenty-eight, my life was vibrant. I was happily married, a mother to a four-year-old and a five-month-old, and my mom and I were never closer. Then—in the blink of an eye—one week after her fifty-fifth birthday, she died of a massive heart attack. Nothing prepared me for her loss. Nothing prepared me for the raw sting of grief. Nothing prepared me for how my world would be forever changed.

 

When my eighty-two-year-old dad lost his five-year battle to congestive heart failure nine years ago, even though I anticipated his death, even though I'd the chance to say goodbye, to say all the things I wished I'd said to my mom, it didn't make my grief more accessible. I still grieved deeply for him. But the thought of being an orphan hadn't even crossed my mind. Nor did I encounter any feelings of the permanence of being parentless.

 

However, weeks later, the sudden awareness that both of my parents were now gone, that I'd lost my identity as their daughter, left a gaping void in my life, bringing with it inescapable loneliness.

 

While I realize everyone's journey is unique, it got me thinking about how middle-aged orphans are often the forgotten grievers. Why? Because, inadvertently, many in society deem middle-aged orphan grief less worthy of the attention it deserves, thereby robbing the unrestricted right to grieve, leaving grief in limbo. 

 

Like myself, you may have felt (or others have unknowingly made you feel) that because our loved one was older when they died, our daily routines should resume without much interruption because death is, after all, the natural order of life. 

 

But does that mean we should put a time limit on our grief? 

 

Can't we be grateful that our loved one lived to be a ripe old age and deeply bereave at the same time?

 

No doubt, losing my mom was very tragic, unlike the anticipation of losing my dad, but my point is: grief still altered my life in both instances.

 

Furthermore, when our last parent dies, whether we had a great relationship with them or whether we had unresolved issues or was estranged, their death marks an end to an era, sometimes forcing us to evaluate our lives and make peace with our imperfect childhood.

 

Helen Keller wisely said, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched; they must be felt with the heart." 

 

Writing became not only an avenue to tune into my emotions after Dad died but also the conduit that opened my heart to healing.

 

Whether it was through penmanship or sitting at my computer, the days I'd sit down to write about my childhood memories sparked a magical inspiration in me. It was the magic of a little girl coming to life in a new light. And as she wrote and dug deeper and deeper into her memory bank, whatever met her along the way, whatever rose in her body, soul, and mind, there in the midst, even amongst the tears, she found joy, she found laughter, she found happiness, as well as pain and regret. But most importantly, she found an incredible sense of peace. 

 

This encounter with peace paved the way to bridging the gap between my childhood and being a middle-aged orphan. It was the peace of knowing that both of my parents were finally together again, of understanding that being a middle-aged orphan doesn't have to represent an empty life or a lonely heart, nor does it have to define my personal history. Instead, glancing back reminds me that the good memories are to be cherished and the bad ones forgiven, if not forgotten. That the twenty-eight years I'd with my mom and the fifty-two years I'd with my dad fills my heart with so much thankfulness, presenting a realization that— as imperfect as my childhood was—my parents did the best they could for me.

 

All of us will have to cross the threshold of parental loss if we live long enough. Maybe you have already made the journey across. If so, while your parents won't be seated at the dinner table this Christmas, know that they will be present in your heart, sitting next to Christ, the Prince of Peace, lovingly whispering Merry Christmas to your soul.


                              Have a blessed Christmas and a prosperous New Year.

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Blindsided by Fear and Anxiety

To have the luxury of a secluded beach area within walking distance of my daughter's house here in Saint John, NB is such a blessing. I don't know about you, but there's just something about listening to the ocean that brings calmness and peace to my soul.

A few nights ago, however, as I became transfixed by the high storm surges unpredictability, the ocean evoked different emotions in me.

Standing near the shoreline, with the force of the wind beating against my face, I closed my eyes and envisioned that the ocean was angry and sad and frustrated. I envisioned that it was lashing out and speaking to me about the worst and most frightening moments that you and I are experiencing right now.

COVID-19 has not only become the hallmark of fear and anxiety, but it has forced our lives to slow down in ways that we never thought imaginable.

Day in and day out, we are left scrolling the internet or glued to our tv in hopes of finding some positive news, some certainty, something to at least soothe our anxious mind. Only to be bombarded by the increased cases of the virus, by the increased number of deaths, heightening our fear and anxiety even more so.

And this past weekend, while still consumed by fighting a common enemy in COVID-19, we were suddenly blindsided by a horrendous mass shooting in Nova Scotia, leaving the victims' families caught in a raging sea of grief, with no peace in sight.

Not only does my heart go out to the bereaved in Nova Scotia and around the world, but it puts my quarantine woes with COVID-19 into a different perspective as well. Because despite days when my fear and anxiety are heightened, despite days when I feel cooped up, despite days when I wish for normalcy, my loved ones are still okay.

Friday, November 15, 2019

The Eye of the Storm

On Sept 6th, after our three-week stay in Newfoundland, Derick and I landed in Halifax, excited to spend the weekend with my sister and her fiancé.

I am an anxious flyer, so I was thankful to finally be on the ground again and to have had a "turbulence-free" flight to boot. Noting this to Derick, he leaned in, looked me in the eyes and—with a wry sense of humor—said, "You do realize hurricane Dorian is expected to hit the east coast tomorrow, particularly Halifax, and you are glad to be here on the ground, uh?"

In my defense, I hadn't given much thought about the hurricane heading our way. It's not that I was oblivious to its destructive path throughout the Bahamas and the U.S., at that moment, I was just glad to be off the plane and not yet ready to comprehend the dangers that Dorian might pose—one fear at a time, please! 

Upon arriving at the baggage carousel, however, I was no longer thankful to be on the ground. My sister had confirmed the brutal facts: We'd indeed be taking a direct hit from hurricane Dorian early Saturday a.m., with forecasted wind speeds ranging from 120 to 150 km an hour (yikes!). 

And true to form, the torrential rain and blustering winds struck us with a vengeance the next morning, and in its wake, widespread power outages impacted the region. 

Fortunately (as the storm raged on outside), a generator afforded us a sense of normalcy, a means to have breaking news updates as well as coffee and food and lighting.

While Dorian appeared to pause shortly after lunch, we were left wide-eyed, frozen, by the stillness of nature's rage. I am not sure who blurted out, "I believe we are in the eye of the storm!" Nevertheless, this turbulence-free zone filled the air not only with calm energy but an eerie yet peaceful feeling as well. I mean, even the trees seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Regrettably, though, the brevity of nature's rest soon gave way to pounding winds from the opposite direction—casting us into uncertainty once more.

Hours had passed since the stillness in the eye when, from the living room vantage point, my eyes caught sight of the dusk sky peering through the kitchen window. Its shadowy outline lured me into taking a closer look. And as I stood there (pretty much on tippy-toes, to get the full view of the outside) and watched the treetops fiercely sway back-and-forth against the darkening backdrop, a wave of panic gripped me.

You see, during the day, I was somewhat comforted by the fact that my "hawk-eyes" could take in every detail of the storm's rage around me. But knowing that it'd soon lurk in the dark, knowing that it'd soon hammer us with hidden fury, caused anxiety and fear and a pang of uncertainty to flood my body. Yet, I knew I had no control over the results of Dorian. So I did the only thing I knew to do: I prayed.  

Thankfully, we all survived that horrifying night unharmed. And although for several days nearly a million people were without power throughout the Maritimes, there were no human casualties. There was, however, significant infrastructure damage, and many of the areas majestic trees had succumbed to Dorian's wrath.

I liken Dorian to life storms. Many of you reading this have weathered them. Many of you have suffered significant losses in their aftermath. And yet, you have found a way to rise above. Not unscathed, not without being changed and shaped differently, no doubt. And rightly so. Your life was serene, and then—in the blink of an eye—you were tossed into a raging storm, battered and broken and uprooted from the life you once knew.

I can relate to storm damage in my life, as well. 

I was twenty-eight years old when my fifty-six-year-old mother suddenly died. In an instant, without any warning, she was gone. One day I had a mother, and the next day I was motherless. In its wake, this tragic event triggered a slow-moving grief hurricane, where the winds of pain came at me in many directions, where I went through life searching for the serenity of the eye.

The backstory is: Although I went into survival mode for my, then, four-year-old daughter and five-month-old son, it took years to work through my grief. The truth is, it wasn't until I found Christ in the eye of yet another storm, over a decade ago, was I able to find true peace and calmness of spirit. And even though I still succumb to fear, I've come to the realization that (unlike the trees), if we survive the fall, our life isn't over. We can choose to rise again. We can choose to embrace the lesson's grief offers. We can choose to become generators of light for others, even though the gaping hole in our heart is irreplaceable. 


With the Christmas season fast approaching, many will be stressed and lonely and sad this year—loss of traditions, an empty seat at the table, financial difficulty, illnesses, loss of hope...have trapped them inside one of life's storms.

Christ draws us ALL to the eye of the storm, a place of rest and calmness and peace. But for those who are burdened by circumstances, generators of light may need to come alongside them. Perhaps you/we can be that light this year? 

Friday, September 7, 2018

The Long Goodbye

"The long goodbye" originated from the former first lady, Nancy Reagan, regarding her husband's long battle with Alzheimer's. Many caregivers and their families have since used this phrase when describing their journey with dementia because the roadmap forward is very vague and unique to the individual travelers.

I write on this dedicate topic not to minimizes its prognosis in any way, but in hopes of bringing some level of comfort and awareness to those who may find themselves engulfed by dementia's emotional rollercoaster. And my approach is twofold : (1) To share a piece of what I've witnessed throughout my own experiences. (2) To help others recognize the role grief and loss contributes in the long goodbye.

Having worked with dementia patients throughout my career in long-term care, as well as having witnessed a dear friend's life unfold with this illness, gave me a firsthand look into the different degrees of losses and grief that were present for caregivers and their families. And although its progression varied from person to person—depending on which type was diagnosed (the most common form being Alzheimer's), I'd not witnessed any loss more painful than the loss of normalcy in their interactive relationships.

For instance, impairment progression brings with it immense changes and challenges to one's personality such as confusion and bouts of agitation, which can become physically and emotionally taxing for everyone involved, in particular, the spouse. On the positive side: These relational changes usually happen over time, with many periods of normalcy in between.

However, due to the unpredictability of this illness, it's impossible to know what yours or your loved one's experiences will be like.

For me, unlike when I worked with patients in the latter stages of dementia, where they were severely impaired, and full-time care was required, I was involved right from the get-go with my friend's prognosis. For the first five years, there was hardly any change in our relationship. Furthermore, even when his memory did decline (because of our thirty-two-year history together), I was fortunate enough to be able to help him piece together positive events from his past, where he and I'd often found commonality and laughter.

During impairment progression, reverting to the past more so than living in the present is not an uncommon occurrence for your loved one, nor is it unusual for a significant other to want to keep them attached to the present—as such we are always adapting our communicative approach. And sharing memories through this communicative approach is one of the treasures in the long goodbye, for the reason that memories are the foundation of who we are; therefore, the positive ones need to be cherished as a precious gift.  

Think about it: Who better to bring shared memories into the present for your loved one than you. Whether that's helping them navigate their own or whether you are the voice that carries the conversation for them, your memories will always be the love connection that binds.

Unfortunately, though, there will be other times when dementia—like a thief in the night—will rob valuable pieces of your loved one's past, leaving you grieving over the relationship that once was.

And while grief is a personal experience, and everyone will cope with it differently, at their own pace, it's important to understand that grief is very much a healthy and natural response to the many painful losses you will experience on this journey. Don't be afraid to permit yourself to grieve, because (all too often) grief gets misunderstood and overlooked, causing emotions to mask beneath the day-to-day challenges, which can become unhealthy for one's well-being.

Last but not least: Be kind to yourself. Don't try and make the journey alone. Lean on the people you trust as well as seek professional help when/where you need it. Also, reach out to others who have gone through similar experiences. No doubt your "long goodbye" is unique, but you will be surprised how much your stories will have in common. 

Monday, April 17, 2017

Under The Umbrella of Dementia’s Grip

Whether death is sudden or lingering and expected, grief steals from us; it robs us of our joy and sends us down a turbulent river of emotions.

A dear friend was diagnosis with dementia a decade ago. At the onset of his prognosis, there was little change in character. But in the last five years, and especially in the last six months, his disease rapidly progressed, and sadly, he lost his battle last week.

Often when we hear the word dementia, we presume memory loss. But dementia is so much more than that. Memory loss does indeed create a profound anguish because memories are the foundation of who we are. But on the whole, dementia encompasses a vast range of loss and sorrow, filled with many outpouring of emotions, bringing grief and loss to the forefront of our daily lives.

Because I had witnessed my friend's dementia unfold, it made me more aware of how much grief and loss are combined and present for caregivers and family members dealing with this disease. Before seeing the disabling characteristics of dementia first-hand, I mostly considered the words grief and loss (when used in tandem) to be associated with death. But long before there is any closure with death, the people involved must move through the agony of the anticipated losses that gradually steal the personal bond they once shared with their loved one. And once death does finally come, it's usually accompanied by a mixture of sorrow and relief: sorrow because their loved one is no longer with them, and relief because suffering has ended.

Dementia, however, is not a one size fits all. It’s a unique set of experiences for the individual and their family.

In my friend's case, there were times when this disease caused his brain to misfire, leaving him lost and frustrated. But there were other times when moments of normalcy had crept back to the surface, bringing joy and laughter into our lives.  

It can be a long emotional journey watching the person we love slip away from us, the person that may now not even know us. So we must savor those moments of normalcy. Because even when they become a rarity, they are still a precious gift of hope for all who are fearful and struggling under the umbrella of dementia's grip.