Category

Grief and Loss

Category

In response to questions about my writing

The question I get asked most often these days is are you writing anything? My usual response is: I write nearly every day in my journal and I’ve completed several articles for a client. But when it comes to blog posts, I’ve been, well, stuck. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block. New ideas for posts come to mind regularly. I write them in my head and jot them down in my book of ideas. I just can’t sit myself down to flesh them out. And when I do work on stories, I can’t seem to finish them. Emotional overload To be fair to myself, I have carried a heavy load for a very long time. Transitioning my dad to a retirement home last fall and selling his belongings and house this summer was way more stressful than I’d anticipated. As spring came into bloom this year, my mourning for Paul…

Packing clothes, unpacking memories

Never is the brevity of life more palpable than when we are tasked with the job of packing up a loved one’s belongings. I started tackling the job last spring, about six months after Paul died. I remember thinking it would be difficult, that I might be asking for more grief. But it just felt like an everyday household chore – something that needed to be done. I began with his clothing, gathering up his t-shirts, sweaters, pajamas, shorts, jeans, casual pants, and socks. Working methodically – folding and stacking, folding and stacking – I let my mind wander. Was it too soon to remove his things from view? Would I regret this impulsive move to clear the space his clothes had filled for decades? As the stacks of clothing grew, so did a feeling of annoyance, even anger. I was focused on all the living Paul had done in those…

Thankful For The Memories

Memories of Paul are front and center these days. Thanksgiving was one of his favorite holidays mostly because of the food. He could eat turkey and stuffing every day. A hot turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and gravy on the side was often his choice when eating out. Sometimes we made the traditional Thanksgiving Day fare long after the holiday had passed. Early in our relationship, he made a full course Thanksgiving dinner for some of his friends and me. I can still see him sweating in his upper flat’s small kitchen: Slicing turkey, whipping up mashed potatoes, focused on getting everything to the table at the same time. I was so impressed; I think I fell in love with him a little more than I already was that night. I couldn’t help but think of him as I prepared the turkeys this week. I would have called on him…

The dream that consoled me

Here’s one for those who enjoy finding hidden meanings in dreams. A few weeks ago, I had a dream about my mom. She came in through the back door of my house and stood on the landing leading to the kitchen. I was doing something at the sink — maybe preparing something for a family gathering. I was conscious of other people in the house — my kids, Paul, my dad — but they were not involved in the moment. I kept doing what I was doing as I turned to look at her. She was young and beautiful, clothed in a 1950’s style red dress — fitted waistline, flared at the bottom. Her black hair was short, framing her face with soft wavy curls. A broad smile made her face almost glow. She moved toward me to kiss me, but I stopped her cold. Don’t kiss me, Mom.…

International Widows Day is no laughing matter

“Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for orphans and widows in their distress …” (James 1:27, NLT) Mom, I don’t want to make you sad, and it sounds kind of weird, but it’s International Widows Day today. That was the text message I received last Friday from my daughter, Emilie, while I was at the hair salon. I burst out laughing. “Why do we need a day to acknowledge widows?” I said to my stylist. “It’s not enough you have to deal with all the firsts and anniversaries, and now this?” he said. “So what do you do on International Widows Day?” I wondered aloud. “Do you celebrate with a party, as if being a widow is a good thing? Do you say ‘Happy Widows Day’ to the widows in your life? Or do you gather the widows and orphans and have…

Cut me some slack

(Written one night while wrestling with the anger that finds its way into the process of grief, either on its own or provoked by something someone said. Shared in an effort to help others better understand the grieving soul.) Cut me some slack. Don’t take it personally if I turn down your invitation to dinner or if I don’t seem enthused by your offer to spend the day together. Forgive me if I don’t return your phone call for a few days — okay, weeks. I’m not breaking up with you. I’m suffering with grief. No, I’m not curled up in the fetal position, wiping away tears with the same tissue that I just used to blow my nose … or maybe I am.  I’m not wallowing in self-pity either, at least not every day. I’m just learning to live with loss, and that takes time. So, excuse me…

Remembering Paul on his birthday

Paul would have turned 70 today. I’d like to think we would have thrown him a party with family and friends, showering him with gifts and messages of love. Instead, I write through the reality that he isn’t numbering his years anymore. He is on the other side, in the presence of God, where time isn’t marked and his often-troubled spirit is finally free. No more pain, sorrow or tears. ——- Last year on his birthday, he was about six months into his battle against the cancer that, after more than two years of hibernation, had awakened famished and hell-bent on taking over more of his body. Uncontrolled pain in his side was a constant companion, interrupting his sleep night after night. The chemotherapy was taking its toll, zapping his strength and, sometimes, his will to fight. My journal entry for that day reads: “Paul’s 69th birthday. I am…

Grief is a pain in the soul

Grief is a peculiar thing. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it, creeping into your consciousness through images and hidden memories come to life. You see his picture on your phone – the same picture you see every time you open it – but this time, it surprises you to see him again. A dream awakens you in the early morning hours with a start because it was so real. You’re sure he’s back. You look at his side of the bed to find the pillows and blankets in the same position as when you finally fell asleep last night and the night before. Still, you imagine him there, sleepy eyes opening to see you, his hand reaching over to touch you, to calm your fears. Grief jerks you into reality. Like a little girl awakened from a bad dream, you slip out of bed, eyes…