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.

Childhood Memories in Rrual Newfoundland

Since moving to New Brunswick last year, its rugged natural beauty has transformed me back into an outdoorsy woman. 

Living near the ocean and seemingly endless hiking trails has offered an escape from the isolation that COVID (at times) represents. And being a part of our grandchildren's bubble has blessed Derick and I immensely. 

I am not sure if it's the similar terrain, the ocean air, or the familiar culture, but whatever it is, it often triggers the floodgates of memory, transporting me back to the Newfoundland of my youth. It's incredible how life looks once our heart is healed because it allows us to gaze through a prism, once clouded by negativity. 

Growing up in the 60s and 70s, with my eight sisters and five brothers, in a secluded village along the rugged coast of Newfoundland, definitely had its share of hardships. But life was much simpler back then. We'd the freedom to explore, take on new adventures, and allow our imaginations to run wild.

I was the second oldest girl of fourteen children. Perhaps that's why I became somewhat of a mother hen to my younger siblings, for a brief moment in time, anyway. 

In the summer months, somewhere around the age of ten or eleven, with lunch bag in hand, I'd take on the responsibility of trekking through the woods en route to what was called "Blue Rock," a secluded swimming hole area. 

Time wasn't of the essence. The only stipulation was we'd return home before supper. I guess some would consider it neglect by today's standards; however, we grew up faster in those days, often out of necessity. Besides, there were other families at the swimming hole, and we all kinda looked out for one another.

My husband definitely took on more responsibility back in his growing-up days as well. At eleven years old, he and his thirteen-year-old brother not only learned how to build their own lobster traps but awoke at four am, headed out on the Atlantic ocean, by themselves, in some pretty rough conditions at times, I might add. And after they had hauled their traps, they would return home in time for school.

Derick looks back with fond memories and appreciates how it helped mold his adult work ethic. But can you imagine allowing your young boys to do such a thing now? 

The wintertime of my childhood was indeed cold and often snow ladened. But we still managed to make the outdoors exciting and fun. After all, there were no electronic devices to distract us in those days.

 A couple of winter escapades stand out to me. One was when Dad replaced Mom's old vinyl flooring in our kitchen/living room with contemporary black and white tiles. 

Now, you had to know my mother. She was adamant about having her floors waxed every Saturday, so you can imagine the wax build-up on that old flooring. 

I am not sure who or what spurred us to pull that old vinyl out of the garbage and use it for crazy carpets, but it sure made for one fast ride down over a steep hill near our house. Not to mention how the lack of cushion (I can still hear our infectious laughter now) left us in a fit of screaming, "Oh my butt, oh my butt hurts so bad!!" Yet, we'd continue to do it for hours! 

Another spontaneous makeshift sleigh adventure was when my brothers disconnected the hood from an old car. We'd all jump on it, and with one big push, we'd fly down over the hill and out onto the frozen harbor. The only problem was we had to drag that heavy car-hood back up the hill again. And while there were many whines and grunts and groans, we did it anyway, for the thrill of the ride, if nothing else.  

On a more serious note, I look at the modern and diverse school system my grandchildren are enrolled in today — with its no-touch and anti-bullying policies — and I can't help but remember the distinct contrast of my school years. 

The community schools in rural Newfoundland were religiously denominational back then. 

For instance, in some protestant towns, like my husbands, there might have been a few small schools, each run by a different church. 

On the other hand, my hometown was entirely Catholic. Therefore, my school experience was embedded in a strict Catholic school system. 

The classroom's disciplinary nature was something some of my older siblings and I were exposed to. Two scenes come vividly to mind: 1) Standing in a corner with book(s) on our hands. 2) Being punished with a leather strap. Both were frightening and humiliating and weren't a positive learning experience for me. 

But all our experiences, both good and bad, mold us into the people we become. We can either allow the negative ones to control us, or we can allow our spirit to heal and become a beacon of light for others. 

It's been a challenging year. Last Easter, we were heading into the thick of the pandemic. And now here we are with another Easter upon us, with some hope in sight, no doubt.

I don't know about you, but as I celebrate Jesus this Easter, the Risen Light, I want it to be a reminder of how His light shone through those dark and difficult days, a light that continues to extend His gift of grace and hope to our world. 

Happy New Year

With 2020 coming to a close, it'll be a year that we won't soon forget, a year that was highjacked by an invisible enemy. 

And with the Christmas rush now over, resolution ideas are circulating. For various reasons— and with good intentions—many will want to start their new year with an incentive to turn over a new leaf. And while some will be successful at it, others will become bored and deflated before January is over, tossing their goals aside in defeat.

Why, then, do many begin the new year motivated to make changes, only to end up feeling like a failure when they relapse? 

A couple of reasons stand out as to why my New Year's resolutions didn't work in past years: 1) I'd made them on a whim (or a dare). 2) I'd set unrealistic goals for myself without giving any real thought to how I wanted to achieve them.

But by setting realistic goals for ourselves, we are more apt to keep our resolutions throughout the year because we are better equipped to avoid the pitfalls unwarranted pressure can present.

As you look forward to a new year, whatever you're planning on giving up or adding, bear in mind, even if you relapse at some point, it doesn't mean you are a failure, so don't beat yourself up. Instead, celebrate your progress. Reflect on how far you have come, not on how far you have to go. Most all of all: keep believing in yourself, stay resolute, and focused on hope. 

Happy New Year! All the best in 2021!

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.

November is Adoption Awareness Month

Statistics have shown that when kids remain in foster care, they are more likely to be arrested and unemployed as adults. Denied the right to be adopted, they will eventually age out of the system and onto the streets, fending for themselves, with no family to go home to, no traditions to take part in, and no one to help with life's setbacks.

Fostering is an essential service, yes, but it was never meant to be permanent—every child desires and waits for their "forever" home. And yet, what is so disheartening to me is that so many still frown heavily on gay adoption.

Some fear that allowing same-sex couples to adopt will change the family dynamics. Others even fear that being raised by a same-sex couple will influence the child to be gay.

First of all, being gay isn't learned behavior. And secondly, same-sex couples want to love and nurture children in the same way heterosexual couples do. They aren't trying to threaten anyone's values. 

I truly understand people's fears, though. So I try to cut them some slack when they voice their opinions in a kind manner.

Eight years ago, when my daughter and her wife privately adopted our first grandchild, I'd mixed feelings and fears. But when our second grandchild (a foster child) was adopted fifteen months ago, I was onboard upfront. 

What changed? What generated me to be on the opposing side of this debate? 

I saw the face of it. And I am now seeing the face of it with both of my grandsons. They are thriving in their lives. They are being raised on a foundation of safety and trust and stability and love — a recipe for success in my books. 

Bottom line: Every child desires to be loved and accepted. Together we can take a stand to help end the stigma that still surrounds gay adoption. Together we can take a stand to help make the world a safer place for ALL families.
 
We can do this by starting at home, by educating our children, by teaching them about diverse families, about inclusion, about discrimination, and about how to value people for who they are. 

On a personal note: I am so thankful that gay adoption is legalized here in Canada because it's been an incredible blessing to us.

Why I Am Grateful for Rock Bottom

There's no shame in hitting rock bottom. What matters is that we strive to rise daily; what matters is that we endure the pitfalls along the way and become the person we were created to be.

 

I awoke in a fog of despair, not wanting to get out of bed. I knew it wasn't just another bad day. I knew it wasn't just a matter of "getting up and getting over it" because it felt like my body had been drained of energy, leaving me void of any hope of climbing out of the dark, eerie hole I'd found myself in. 

Cradled in a fetal position, sobbing, my heart ached unbearably for answers to the questions circling in my head: How did I get to this place? Who am I? And what is the purpose and meaning of life? 

Through sheer exhaustion, I was compelled to remember her: that strong-willed, tenacious person—who’s never been a quitter but rather a fighter. She was the one I tapped into. She was the one who gave me the fortitude to rise. She was the one who prodded me: "Do you want your story to end at the bottom."

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."- Maya Angelou

It's been over a decade now since I put pen to paper and began writing through the recollections of my emotional baggage, where I've found incredible insights into the experiences that'd shaped me, helping me to lean into the pain, allowing me to move into the acceptance of that pain.

How did I arrive at rock bottom? 

 

In retrospect, I didn't just wake that morning to find myself there. Consequently, I’d been running from myself for years. I hid behind masks. I had built walls so thick around my heart, you would've needed a sledgehammer to beat them down. The truth is, I'd ignored so many red flags that my past was spiraling me down until it eventually landed me at rock bottom.

 

To be frank, no one could have saved me. Not my husband, not my kids, not my friends. I had to be the one to take charge of my life. I had to be the one to throw away the blame game, the pity parties, the "woe is me" attitude, the victim mentality. And it didn't happen overnight. I am still a work in progress. Darkness still exits. But the difference now is: So does God.

Ironically, I'd struggled to believe that God was even there with me in my pain that morning. But I sure believe it now, that He knew it wasn't the end, that my rock bottom was no surprise to Him. It was where I needed to be all along. Only then could He heal me and help rebuild my life in the way He had designed. All I needed to do was reach for His hand and abandon my way of living. In other words, I had to take my hands off the wheel. 

While rock bottom is subjective, what we all have in common are choices: The choice to change, the choice to heal, the choice to seek help, the choice to say, "There is no way my story is ending at the bottom. I am worthy of so much more, and I will scratch and crawl my way out of this dark hole to find me." Or we can choose to stay stuck in the mire.

I can say wholeheartedly today that I've never been more grateful for my rock bottom experience. 

Why?

Because it led me to Christ.

 

Because it forced me to look in the mirror and ask the hard questions.

Because it pulled off my masks, crumbled down walls, ultimately leading to my truest self.

 

Because it taught me about self-love and self-compassion.

And because it gave me insight and understanding into the experiences that had shaped me, imparting the wisdom and knowledge needed to help others.

Perhaps you are reading this and (like I did) feel void of hope. Listen: You are stronger than you think. While the climb to the top won't be easy, while you will make strides one day and feel like quitting the next, keep pushing forward, remembering to take the time to rest and breathe along the way. I assure you: One day you will stand on the summit and shout: "I did it! All the moans and groans to get here were worth it!"

The Comparison Trap

Whether we do it consciously or unconsciously, we all, from time to time, fall into the comparison trap. We pull out our measuring stick and compare others by what they have, by what they wear, by how they look ... leaving us feeling either superior or inferior to them. 

Yes, it's natural to compare. Yes, not all comparing is unhealthy. But when it's entrenched in the philosophy that the grass is greener on the other side of the fence, when it promotes an envious, resentful attitude toward other's success, it can be detrimental to one's well-being. 

The thing is: the greener grass view only allows us to see what's directly in front of us, anyway, which is merely a perception of someone's life. We can't possibly have an accurate assessment of someone's story from the other side of the fence. And (more often than not) when we do hear their story, either face-to-face or through social media — we come to realize that the marriage we envied fell far short of our expectations, or even ended in divorce. Or the person that we thought had it all together was actually insecure and lacked confidence.

I know firsthand hand that nothing derails joy and contentment faster than comparing oneself to others. 

Growing up in a low-income family, the comparison trap seeped into my life at a very early age. I longed to fit in but was always left looking over the fence. I was envious of those who were popular, who wore the latest brand-name clothes, and who appeared to have a fairytale home life. 

The bare bones of my story: The fear of not being good enough, the fear of not measuring up, the fear of failure, and the fear of rejection became a benchmark to prove my worth to the world in adulthood. The "I will show you" kind of mentality led me down a road of perfectionism and people-pleasing. And it not only held me back and prevented me from becoming the best version of myself, but it also left me ungrateful for the beautiful life I had in front of me.

I am not saying that the comparison trap never rears its ugly head in my life today. There are days when I doubt my abilities as a writer, days when my inner critic feeds me the lies that I am not good enough or smart enough to write, but the difference now is that I sit with my emotions. I address them for what they are, reminding myself to stay in my own lane and run beside those who inspire me, who push me up higher, and who believe in my gifts and talents.

Don't waste your time looking over the fence at someone else's life. Water your own gifts and talents. Be grateful for the life you have. Contentment doesn't come from what you own or how much money you have or how you look; contentment comes from inner joy, of knowing that you are enough.

As the wise Dr. Seuss once said, "Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You."

 Embrace your uniqueness.