The "yes-and" of holidays and grief

 Holidays bring into sharp relief the "yes-and" nature of living with grief, the hard, now uncomfortably familiar dance of holding joy and sorrow simultaneously. 

On a large scale, every holiday shines a light on the one who is missing and prods that deep, sore wound.

On a smaller scale, the wretched weather pummeling the Columbia Gorge has prevented us from gathering with our other children to celebrate Christmas.

The yes-and of this Christmas is layered. It holds the same sharp edges of the past four years, of feeling the heavy loss of our elder son while also celebrating and savoring with our other loved ones. It also holds this added weight of sadly longing to be with our other children...while treasuring having spent Christmas day with my mom and stepdad, who are 81 and 92 years old. 

Yes, I am heart-sore and teary over the frustration of our happy plans with our kids...and after decades of living too far away for this, spending a winter holiday with my mom is absolutely priceless. 

One way I cope with this awkward juggling act is something I've written about before: I do something tangible...physical...visible...to acknowledge the hard things. This is nothing big, that would be obvious to others. It is just the way I make room for the true story going on in my heart. When I give real space to the hard and painful weight I carry, it actually frees up room for...joy. 

Today, this looked like the careful choosing of jewelry.

This has been, from the first early days of our loss, the most common way I honor my heart's suffering so I can function. Instead of just stuffing the feelings down, I give them official, private recognition. 

I had the joyous opportunity of going to Christmas morning church today, with my husband, mom and stepdad. What a precious joy that was! Also...we were supposed to spend today with our younger son, our younger daughter and her husband, looking forward to our elder daughter and her husband joining the party tomorrow. It is hard to lose that. It is precious to be here.

Here is how I told my heart's story today:

The colored bracelet and the black one with the heart are about our children; the one who is gone and the ones we planned to be with today. I carried all of them very much in my heart today. The little gift-bow earrings were a deliberate choice, reminding my heart to not dwell only on what I don't have. I sometimes need a reminder to also be happy; to let the joy be big and real, too. The other earrings are small black crosses that I bought in the first wave of our grief. I often wear them when my heart is heavy. The bracelet with the silver feather  is my "hope" bracelet. You know the poem that says, "Hope is a thing with feathers...?" The feather on this bracelet makes me think of hope. I almost always wear it when I wear the silver heart bracelet, a reminder to myself that while our loss is devastating and real...hope is also powerful and true. 

If you are also walking this hard yes-and of grief in this season of special holidays, I just want to say that I see you. I see the weight on your heart. I feel the energy it takes to smile and to celebrate and while you truly love this special time, the extra effort it requires leaves you exhausted. I see the careful dance you do of making sure your special people know how you love being with them, while also holding the deep ache for the ones who are not there. 

Hold on, dear ones. 

This is hard. 

You are doing a good job.

It is okay to feel happy in spite of your sadness.

It is okay to feel sorrow in the midst of happy celebration.

We hold both joy and sorrow at the same time.

It is difficult, but it is what we do.

Not helpful? Telling me I'm doing it wrong...

A very few people have essentially (or actually) told me that I'm doing this wrong. 

Of these few, 100% of their children are walking around alive. This is an important point.

A friend of mine lost an adult son a couple of years after we lost Michael. He left this earth in a different, but equally sudden and tragic way. She is also a mental health counselor. She knows a lot about healthy ways of handling emotions. Do you know what she does not do? She has never once told me, or even implied, that I am doing grief wrong.

Why is it that these other folks have tried to push me in a different direction?

It's because I'm still sad...because Michael's death still, daily, has an impact on me. Because I still think about it and talk about it. Because...his death still makes my life harder.

The reason for their words is rooted in their pain at seeing me suffer. They love me and they want so badly for me to not suffer so much. For them, and for others, their motivation is a deep desire to help. They want so badly to say something that will ease my suffering and make this not so heavy for me.

None of this is ill-intended. 

These are all people who love me.

Their desire, I fully believe, is rooted in love and caring and a longing to somehow help me in this.

The problem?

No matter the depths of love and kindness that drive the words, the words still land hard and crosswise on my heart.  I do my level best to respond with patience and grace, believing that the motivation is loving, and not wanting to hurt these people who matter to me. Still...their words hurt.

What should we all not do? Tell somehow whose heart is broken that they're bleeding the wrong way.

There is no "fix" for my pain. Michael is gone and nothing will bring him back. His absence is the cause of my pain, and nothing changes that. 

Grief is not something to fix or to solve. Loss is an unyielding fact.

My continued sadness is not an indication that I'm doing something wrong. It is the most natural reaction to the loss of my child.

What prompted me to sit down and write this? A memory of someone- again, someone who loves me and deeply desires to help- suggesting that my use of words is somehow...an avoidance of really working through my feelings.The comments were well-intended. The problem? 

I am a verbal processor. Words are the best and deepest way that I dig down to and wade through my thoughts, feelings, and emotions. I talk, I write, I pray- all ways I use my words to understand my own heart. While it may be true that for some folks, talking about things can be an avoidance of doing something about them, for a verbal processor, words are the most direct and effective way of sorting, learning, and understanding. For someone whose mind and emotions work this way, words are doing something.

I know that because I am writing this and sharing it, there will be a few people who will (or who will badly want to) come to me  privately and suggest that I shouldn't have. They will be concerned that my words will hurt someone's feelings or make them feel bad. They will want to remind me that everyone means well and is just doing their best. 

May I just gently point out the irony of telling me I'm wrong for talking about how it hurts when people tell me I'm doing this wrong?

 

My opening up about something that has hurt me is not the problem. The hurtful words are the problem.

 

Why is it my job to protect people from the discomfort of knowing that their words have made my burden heavier and harder to bear? It's...okay for others to hurt me, but I'm not allowed to mind? It's okay for them to hurt me, but not for me to say, "That hurt?"

 I am not writing this to be mean, to get revenge, or to shame or embarrass people.

So why am I writing it?

Because nothing will get better if we don't talk about the things that hurt us.

Because we all need to do better, at walking alongside the grieving.

Because people have asked me to share my experiences, so they can learn better ways.

Because before my own huge loss, I have also said all the wrong things to grieving people.

 

Now that I, sadly, know better, here is what I want to say:

Please, please oh please, stop telling, suggesting or implying that grieving people are doing grief wrong.

It doesn't help.

It really hurts.

It only adds to an already terribly heavy burden.

Grief is not a problem to be solved.

Expressing sadness is not a request for helpful solutions.

Maybe, instead of trying to fix or solve the grief, or advise the hurting person on how to hurt the right way, we could just...listen? 

You don't have to have the right words in response to grief or the expression of grief.

There are no words that make it not sad and hard.

Words are not what is needed.

What is needed is compassion, grace, and room to just be sad without people trying to fix it.

Dawn of Slow Healing

 

Four years, four months since that horrible day.  

On June 25, 2018, we got the shattering news of the death of our son Michael. He had taken his life the day before, on a Sunday morning. A friend of his, also a co-worker, went to check on him after work on Monday, because he hadn't shown up and wasn't answering his phone. We got the news soon after.

Every month since then, for four years, I've gone into a decided slump as those dates rolled around. This wasn't some private drama I invented but a pattern I noticed over time. The first time I realized this was happening came maybe seven or nine months after his death. My hubby Lee and I were
watching TV one evening and I suddenly felt like I was about to burst into tears. I turned to him and said, "I feel like I'm about to cry, but I don't know why." 

Then we realized what date it was, and the time. It was the twenty-fifth of the month, and almost the time when the officer knocked on our door to deliver the news.

After that, I recognized the pattern. Every month, as the dates of his death and of our receiving the news rolled around again, my physical energy and emotional reserves would take a dive. I learned to build my schedule around this cycle, keeping my calendar clear around those dates. I learned to be extra gentle with my grieving self through those days. Even on the few months when I didn't realize the date, everything in me downshifted to a low, heavy idle. There's a saying, "The body keeps the score," and I've found that very true. Even when my conscious mind was not paying attention, my body and my emotions were very aware of and very affected by the return of those dates.

...until recently.

I didn't say anything for a while, even to my closest people, because I though it might be a fluke; a temporary reprieve. 

It wasn't. 

It has now been four months.

June of this year, the fourth anniversary of Michael's death, is the last time I got pulled into dark, clammy quicksand on those dates. I am...cautiously celebrating. After four years of living through that downward pull and the slow climb back to the light, I'm a little afraid to jump for joy quite yet.

Still...for four months now, those dates pass, and I am...okay. I'm actually fine. 

Let me clarify: I am still, forever, intensely sad and miss our beautiful son deeply.

I'm not saying that I'm done grieving. 

What I am saying is that the monthly cycle of exhaustion and depression has...lifted. 

That bone-deep weariness has not hit me a single time since June. 

I have not needed to retreat to my dark corner of our bedroom for two days straight, to sleep for hours and to stare bleakly at shadows as I did early on. I have not struggled (or failed) to carry out the most basic of tasks, like eating, taking a shower, and getting dressed. Though still a little more tired than usual on those days, I have had the physical and emotional energy to carry on with normal daily life. Rather than my sailboat of life nearly capsizing every single month, it has stayed upright and gently on course.

I am so grateful.

Fourth Deathiversary...Am I "fine?"

This fourth "deathiversary" was a good example of the awkwardness of grief wedged into the mundane.

For my hubby it was a workday, so he carried his sadness in his pocket and went about his day with necessary normalcy.

I had "cleared my decks" in preparation for these days of memory. With no appointments or plans, I left my heart all the room to feel however it wanted to feel about these days. 

There are two consecutive days that I mark each year; the day that our Michael took his life and the next day, when he was found by a friend who went to his home to see why he hadn't come to work.

In many ways, these days passed in completely normal ways. The sun shone, we ate meals, we took the dog out for potty walks. Also, I took a lawn chair up to the cemetery and hung out for a while. His ashes don't live there yet, but the headstone is in place. Aside from the cemetery time, anyone seeing me through most of either day would never have guessed it was a heavier day than most. It all looked very...normal.

And then there is the other side. It looks like any other day, but it also looks like this weary mom lying in bed, curled around a metal box packed with the crumbled bones of our beloved son, breaking my heart.

I rarely let the agony out to play.

Based on comments I've received, from well-meaning people who love me, I guess people think that if I'll just let the feelings out, they'll...I don't know...pass...or dissipate. And I'll be fine. Like if I just have one really good cry (as if I haven't!) then I can dust off my hands and...move on.

Here's the thing...there is no bottom to this pain. 

It's not walking through the fire...as if it has an exit or end that leads to the rest of life. It is living life, every day, in the fire. This is not something I pass through, to get to the rest of my life.

This IS the rest of my life! 

The. Rest. Of. My. Life...

...I will live with the very present, painful reality of the death of our child. That will never change. It will never go away. It will never be okay. It will never stop being permanently, intensely painful. No amount of grieving will change what is true- that our son is no longer alive.

Yes, I seem "fine" most of the time.

Also, I am always this intensely heartbroken, deep inside where most people do not see.

I just cannot go through life wearing my agony on the front of my face.

I don't stuff it out of sight and pretend it's not real. I am always fully aware of its presence, existing alongside everything else. I experience peace and fun and even delighted joy. 

And all of it is alongside this also-truth  of deep sadness.

Because I seem "fine" most of the time, it can seem to some people that maybe it's really not that bad. For those who wear all of their emotions openly, I can see how this could be confusing. This is not how I roll. My life has taught me to hold my true feelings in one place while functioning in another. This practice of compartmentalizing enabled me to hold onto my sanity in the wake of Michael's suicide. It makes it possible for me to function, and even to live a full and happy life, while also holding close the truth of my terrible sadness. This does give the impression that I am, somehow, fine, because I am not visibly in torment and can often speak of our loss calmly.

(Sidenote: Being "fine" takes a tremendous amount of energy. It's part of why I am often very tired.)

All appearances to the contrary, let me say...

Having our beloved Michael kill himself is always, in every single moment, waking or sleeping, the most shocking and agonizingly hideous truth of my entire life. 

It is horrible in ways I cannot even begin to explain. Always. Every moment.

Yes, I live with the matchless, blessed peace of God filling and healing my heart.

Also, having the peace of God does not mean not being sad!!!!

Even with the very real peace of God, it's not a one-or-the-other deal.

I have the peace of God. 

I am also very sad.

And that is okay.

 

A new, sharp edge to the stone of grief

I forget how much I am actually carrying, until I list it out.

It's a lot.

Top of the list: the loss of our child. Our son Michael died four years ago by suicide. I carry all of the intense grief and trauma that surrounds that.

Also on the list, though I, in the way of my family, am usually matter-of-fact about it:  my dad lying in a nursing home bed. My over-the-top, wildly energetic, exhaustingly enthusiastic dad, with his numerous interests and ceaseless font of words and ideas... lies quietly in a nursing home bed. On my visits, if he puts a couple of words together, it's a delightful moment and rare treat. The first time I visited him there, I made it through our time together, then broke down in the hallway as I left. It is so hard to see this vibrant man so quiet and still. Also...we are so grateful to still have him with us, and our times visiting him are sweet. But...because of the magnitude of my grief for our son, my deep sadness over my dad's aging process gets sidelined.

Except for moments like just happened, when the simplest thing can blindside me.

I was scrolling Instagram, avoiding the many things that I need and want to be getting done. I watched this brief, sweet video of a young woman giving her grandpa a coffee mug that says, "You put the great in Grandpa," to let him know she's having her first baby. 

I was smiling, and then the next moment I was crying. Sobbing, my heart breaking....for yet another moment our family will never get to have with my dad. Not the grandpa, surprised and delighted, excitedly hugging his grand-girl and saying how happy he is for her, as the whole family is gathered, celebrating this joyous moment together. 

We don't get to have that. Not with my dad.

My dad will never sing to his great-grandchildren as he did to his little girls. He will not take them fishing or camping, teach them how to tell a sparrow from a starling, or show them tiny wildflowers in the grass. He won't take them for hikes like he did with my children, or tell them stories from his interesting life. All of that....it's just...gone.

And with all of the things I've processed these past ten years, as his health first limited him to nearby towns, and then his town, and then his home, and now a bed in a nursing home...I had never thought of this...that someday I may have grandchildren, and if he's still here, they will only know him as a quiet, sometimes foggy man, lying in bed with Westerns playing on a muted TV.  It's some time since he was able to play an active role in my own kids' lives, and now I'm floored by the fact that he will have almost no part at all, if any, in the lives of their children. And that is breaking my heart.

Grief is like a hard stone, obsidian maybe, with many facets and sharp edges. You may be all-too-familiar with its shape and the way it hurts, but then it turns and a new edge cuts you in a fresh place. Every new cut hurts. Every fresh way you realize what is lost, whether through death or through changes brought on by age or circumstances, hurts all over again. 

Today, a sweet little Instagram post ripped my heart out. Grief is like that.

It is exactly like that. Sneaky. Hiding in unexpected places.

You are not alone.

The past week:

On Wednesday, we learned of some heartbreaking things happening in our family.

On Thursday, I heard of a serious situation in the life of a young person who is like family to me.

On Saturday, at four o'clock in the morning, I was driving a family member to the emergency room.

On Tuesday, we got the news that a long-time family friend had suddenly died.

And that a family member's brother had died.

All of this...in just one week.

It's a lot.

 

Last summer and into the Fall, we got news of a death among our family and friends at least once a week. In the space of six weeks, six women that I know lost their husbands. 

This constant news of death is heart-breaking and heavy.

Also...we're not unusual. 

If you're feeling weary...you're not alone. People speak of "compassion fatigue." There must also be such a thing as...tragedy fatigue. For many of us, these past two years have been a nearly non-stop stream of tragedy and heartbreak. 

News of a trauma or death is like taking a body blow. It hits, and leaves a mark. Some blows are lighter, while others bruise deeply. Over time, we heal from such blows. These past two years have been like being stuck in the ring with the world heavyweight boxing champ, in a bout where the bell never rings. For many of us, the blows just keep coming, with  little chance to catch our breath, let alone heal.

It is taking a toll. We are weary and sad and our hearts are very sore.

At the same time...this is the marrow of life; standing in the hard places with one another.

In the wake of our son's death three and a half years ago, people were lovingly careful of me. They did not come to me with sadness or hard news. I was deeply grateful for their thoughtfulness. I was carrying all I could carry. While I am still, always, devastated by our own loss, it is good to see that I have healed enough to walk with others in their pain. I am glad I wasn't sheltered from the news of pain and hard concern in the lives of people I love. I am glad to once again be someone a friend can come to, with a heavy heart, asking for prayer. It tells me that I am, in fact, healing.

If you are exhausted from the endless stream of bad news, you are, sadly, not alone.

Also- good news! You are not alone! My friend, you are not alone. 

We can either plod along in a stunned parade, staring blankly at our own inner wastelands, or we can put our arms around each other and walk together. I think of soldiers from some old-time war, making their way back from the Front. I picture one guy wounded in the leg, while the other has an arm in a sling and a bandage over his eyes. The one guy puts his arm around the shoulders of his friend, to take the weight from his injured leg. In return, he acts as the "eyes" for his friend, so he doesn't run into obstacles.They could each struggle along alone, but instead they make that trek together. 

Our "wounds," and the heavy loads we carry may be different, but we can help each other along. We can, at the very least, help each other to feel less alone. When we're able, we can put a shoulder under the burden of our friend and help bear the weight for a while. 

Sometimes, all we can carry is our own suffering.

Sometimes, we are able to help carry the suffering of another.

Always, it is good to remember that we are not alone.

We are not alone in our suffering and in our care for the suffering of others.

If you are in a hard and heavy place today, and feeling alone, may I just say...I see you there. 

My heart goes out to you, with all that you are carrying. 

I see you.

And I pray that the peace of God will gently gather you up and carry you.

I pray that you will feel his loving comfort, so tender with our wounded places.

I pray that you will know that you are seen and loved, and that you are not alone.

Why I don't make posts about Suicide Prevention month

For me, September is hard. 

September...Suicide Prevention Month.

The ...whole entire month... when people are sharing posts on social media about suicide.

It's hard for me.

Don't get me wrong. I am profoundly glad and grateful for the many people who raise awareness with heartfelt and informative posts, and for the many working to save other families from such hideous loss.

People I know and love faithfully advocate during this month, in the hope that other families will be spared what they have watched us suffer. I am so glad that they do; so thankful. If you are one of those people- thank you. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Also...every post or article about suicide makes me flinch.

Seeing the word is like a sharp kick to the rawest nerve I have, deep in the core of that heavy wound. 

On a surface, yet true, level, I am okay. I really am. Also, in the deeper places, I am very much not okay. I never will be, because it will never be okay that our precious son Michael is no longer living.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I have written before about the compartmentalization that enables me to function: how Kristie may be chatting with you and carrying on with normal life, but Michael's mom just ordered a headstone for her son, and Michael's mommy still stands frozen in tear-stained disbelief, unable to grasp the impossible truth that her child is dead.

While I think it is deeply, profoundly important and good that so many people are sharing hope and love and compassion and resources around the issue of suicide, I...cannot be one of them. 

Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

Because that word rakes claws across the bleeding heart of Michael's mommy.