LETTER TO SELF—with a postscript to Grief

I choose you quote because my favorite line is 'So Woe shall go past' and I
find myself clinging to this Hope as the Waves crash.
Woe shall go past and yet life teaches that Grief shall last, so we are in
disagreement here! Grief shall last as the best part of life is the joy, the
Love that fills and completes the heart. The Love that grows into compassion, 
empathy, kindness, trust, forgiveness. The very best parts of our human-ness.
For without Love, there is no Grief, as voiced by so many. 
Life without Love is no life for me . . . at all . . . ever.

Dear Self:

Why do I write? I write because I grieve. The pain gets lodged in my body and it needs a release. Words are my free floating elements of power—energy. They form a spiral shape in my mind with curly-ques springing from all sides when joyfulness rests in my heart. Classical music notes appear when I am at peace and comfort could be nothing less than the softest cashmere blanket, peach colored.

What about Grief when it decides joy is taking up too much heart space? Grief how many faces do you have? Sometimes you are so gentle when you present loving memories of Matthew, so sage and wise with the lessons you sprinkle onto my journey; or absolutely hateful when you come riding in on that Second Year Wave. Grief—the self-proclaimed King of the Riptide. Why now as I attempt to re-engage with life? Well I know how to beat a riptide—swim with it and not against it. So it’s me and you Grief in another battle for heart space. ME and you. ME in front of you! Could that be part of the difficulty? Have I rushed into taking care of ME, changing things up too fast because it feels so good to bathe in light again? Forgetting that it is best to change one ingredient at a time when taking on a complete recipe overhaul! Have I misled myself thinking I was over the worst of you—Grief? No need to bully. If you’d asked nicely, I would have slowed down all the thinking and the doing and relaxed into the being. A reminder Self, gentle self-care is what is needed. There is no rushing through the pain even when Mood is uplifted and is calling in Change with open arms.

I had my mind-set after our first Missing Matty Anniversary. Ah! I had my mind set but my heart may not have been quite ready. Grief, my heart was not quite ready when you showed up a year older in Addy’s life. You re-broke my heart and Nikki’s when you broke that little girls’. A week before setting off for their first family vacation since Matty’s death and on the ride to daycare, you attach yourself to Addy’s heart—like a barnacle. Addy voices to her Mom how excited she is to see her Daddy on vacation in Florida! You remembered that a Florida get-away was the last vacation they enjoyed as a new little family. Nikki had to have another very difficult conversation with Addy; reminding her that Daddy is dead, his body does not work anymore. He is in Heaven and his Love lives in her heart. Daddy was not going to be in Florida. Addy then told Nikki she wished she’d die too because “I just want to see my Daddy, I love him so much”. Nikki reached into her grief toolbox, found what she needed and soothed the situation—then cried the entire way to her next morning appointment, cried the rest of the day and Sadness fogs her heart and the tears return when revisiting this memory. Addy’s teachers were wonderful and kept a watchful eye on her that day, sending Nikki reassuring photos that she was engaging in her school activities and enjoying herself. Children are resilient! How we wish we could save the Little Ones from heartbreak and all we can do is prepare them for more. And what about us?

I keep staring at mine—my toolbox. It looks so heavy and that lid is on so tight. I know it holds everything I need to continue my walk with you Grief and I feel paralyzed. I did not see this next trigger coming. I held on tight. Grief, you hit me again when Jason and his family left our abode after a short stay prior to getting settled into their new home. I had to say Goodbye when the suitcases and boxes of daily living apparatus were leaving through the back door. Goodbye to no more good morning wake up calls to a stealthy Jaelyn staring at me, inches from my face until something internal tells me to open my eyes. Startling me—no, scaring the crap out of me and she, getting the biggest kick that Gammy jumped out of her skin! Goodbye to the drunk-baby steps as Jordyn unwinds her morning sea legs. No more catching up on Grey’s Anatomy reruns with Beth. Goodbye to no more daily hugs from my oldest son. Daily hugs from my son that is here in the flesh. Hugs that are so rich and deep they feel as though they are coming from two; from the one here and the one in Heaven. I did not know it would hurt so much to say goodbye to those hugs. It’s really not a Goodbye, it’s a “See Ya”; he does live down the road. I have sleepovers for all the grandchildren. I see them. I watch them grow. Why am I feeling this way? It was having my boy home again. An unexpected treat for the heart at this stage in his life as he is well past the point of coming back home. And then . . . the fear you resurrected! Isn’t the hurt enough? Did you have to drag me back to that place, in the beginning of Missing Matthew, when those awful, horrible, painful, thoughts of “you lost one child, it could happen again “surfaced? Fear, anxiety, projection—can I be pushed any further from living in the present?

Triggers, more triggers. Finally, I had a picture in my mind, flutters in my heart that tell me Matthew is in Spirit. Receiving Matty’s remains for a private release. Gray ash, bone bits. I’m holding what is left of my son. That beautiful physical presence. The warm brown eyes, filled with life and joy. The roman nose, strong. The full lips just perfect to look at and the exit for that giddy, joyful laughter. That head of brown hair. The teeth as white as pearls. His fingers, perfectly spaced digits. Arms that held his wife and his children and his family and friends in such a state of Love. The broadness of the shoulders. The force behind Matthew’s language of Love—his hugs. The organs needed for life—the heart, the lungs, the brain . . . ash to ash . . . beginning to end. It is so real. He is never coming back. I knew that. I believed that and now I am holding that in my hands. And the rip current that catches me sucks me under, thrashes me about, throttles my heart, my soul. Confuses me, rolls me under so that I no longer find up and yet down comes so easily. Eyes open or closed—there is no difference, the force of the water takes away all sight. Get me to the safety of shore!

I’m not the old me and I haven’t met the new me and I’m wondering if there even is a me? I’m lost. I feel shame. Shame that I should not be here, back to the beginning with sorrow. I should be there, with peace and comfort and joy. Where are these words coming from? SILENCE— you voice in my head. Another uninvited guest that feels comfortable enough to never leave. And because of this, you seem hateful to me—Grief. Like some kind of old, rusty, jagged piece of evil, happy only when boring your way throughout my entire body, infecting me with dis-ease.

“Self”, I say I think Grief has the picture. I see my toolbox. Had a friend try and pry the lid off and we succeeded a little. I believe tears act like a lubricant for the soul. Loosening, releasing, sending opening messages to the heart. I’m filled with sorrow that I’ve been kicked back to the curb. The tears have been flowing. I know in my heart of hearts that this deep sorrow is not forever. I know I have to take that first step—or belly crawl to the toolbox if I have to. I have heard the Second Year of grief is just as hard if not harder than the first. I didn’t believe that statement. Didn’t want to believe it. Reality says otherwise. Reality also says I am a survivor. I have brave in my DNA. I can feel my way out of this Riptide. I’ll close my eyes and see with my heart. I’ll swim with. I’ll feel when the waters have calmed and have released me from the current. I’ll take a breath of air so deep that my puffed out lungs float me back to shore—where I can reclaim my toolbox. This is one of many stops of the ‘Starts and Stops’ that are the make up of Grief. I need to take a good look at this Stop. There were a few warning signs that the waters were about to get rough. Did I heed them? No. What happens when I am head-focused instead of heart-focused? Grief finds a way to get my attention. I need to make friends with Grief again. We were working so well together!

I embrace you grief. I’m sorry if I thought those hugs we shared during Matty’s first year of passing were all that you would need. I’m sorry that I did not make time for you to wash over me when the warning bells started to peel. I see now that you are protecting my heart and not sabotaging it. My heart does not, nor can it feel all of you at once. You come in layers and present yourself when the scar tissue thickens and is perhaps ready for more. You allowed space in my heart to feel joy, peace, love and contentment in this first year passed. I thank you for that. I understand now that I am ready for the Second Mourning. I will continue my work. I will embrace you in the Second Year and you will show me deeper feelings of joy, peace, love and contentment. You will show me Life and our dance will continue year after year until my heart is healed enough to hold you at arms’ length and really be able to look at you, to see you, to not recoil at your touch, to welcome you as a part of my life, to find peace in our silence. I knew you had to come sooner or later . . . No one escapes the pain of Grief. I will heal enough where we can sit side by side in life and not feel threatened by one another. Healed enough where I can safely carry you with me and at my end, finally be able to release you.

P.S. Are we friends again? My heart is open to you Grief.

A Prayer for Self

Self—keep moving forward, be kinder, be gentler . . 

.

Learn to love yourself a little more

Release shame—it has no rightful place here

Ask for help

Allow Grief in

Embrace grace and gratitude

Trust

Pray

Love

Hope

Live

Practice the Law of Complement

Please help Self help herself

Blessings and thanks

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13. CHAPTER OF CHOICES AND CHANGE

"GRIEF IS IN TWO PARTS. THE FIRST IS LOSS.
THE SECOND IS THE REMAKING OF LIFE."  Anne Rolfe

13 months since I hugged you last. 

13 months since I've had a lengthy conversation with you. 

13 months since I've enjoyed your physical presence. 

13—that special number you send as a sign of your love and eternity. 

13 months and I'm learning that turning the calendar page of your first anniversary does not necessarily turn the emotional page. My healing journey presents me with a crossroad—offering up a choice that will lead me out of darkness into the light. What is unexpected is the chasm that must be crossed first in order to continue. There is no bridge for easy access. Is there another starting point? Perhaps. However, I've come this far and I've decided I'm going to take a leap of faith and trust that grief knows the way. Choosing to continue healing.

13 months and my Facebook cover photo popped up in my news feed this morning along with the comment I first wrote when posted in January 2015:

MY BEAUTIFUL, BEAUTIFUL BOYS

"Blessed for both my boys/men. Matthew you were a gift. You taught us so much about love, loyalty and the value of special bonds with family. I am in awe of how many lives were touched by your spirit. Jason you were a great role model for your brother. You were best friends . . . the one wish Dad and I had for you two. What love, friendship, memories. Let those carry us through our grief. You are my beautiful, beautiful boys."

13 months and I feel a strong need to add an addendum of sorts to that year old comment as time passing has afforded me a different perspective: 

"It's been over 13 months since that dreadful day we realized that beautiful smile was to become memorialized in photos. In rereading what I wrote soon after Matthew's passing, I notice how often  I used the past tense in my comment. A year of mourning,  a year of better understanding grief I would like to change all the "were(s)" to "are(s)". The one great lesson I have learned this past year is that Love lives in the present, it never dies.  Death is for the physical body and  a gentle transition for the soul. Matthew's love is alive as ever in my heart. I've learned to carry him with me, intertwining his life with mine in a way that transforms me for the better. As much as my heart expands daily with love and gratitude for my remaining beautiful family, seeing Matty's smile in a photo reminds me that longing sits right beside love and gratitude and that is OK. Thank you for visiting a past memory with me." Choosing to revisit and revise beliefs as needed.

13 months and I'm reflecting on the parts of your life that I admire and would like to weave into the fabric of mine. You carried and held onto the child within—your inner child for the whole of your life. The child that often gets forgotten as we age. The child that lives in innocence without fear of complications. The child that lives with wonder and joy. The child that is playful, fully immersed in the part of life that happens when we have no worries. We called this Matty's World and I'm thinking I'd like to visit for an extended stay. Is this what allowed you to live in the present moment when not weighted down with the unrelenting demands of your family business? The present moment, where joy lives, leaving all other remnants of the day purged. The gift of the present moment is what you gave to Addy & Bear. Happy lives with babies & toddlers. You possessed the ability to center your focus on their little beings. Addy holds tight to the present moments you spent with her, memories made and solidified in the heart and mind of a two year old now turned three. You applied that same focus, showered an abundance of nurturing care on your babies in other times as well. You were present. It wasn't just in happy times; the sad and the needy when they had ear infections, colds or tummy aches held your attention as well. I choose to spend time in Matty's World—in the present, creating new memories. Choosing to find happiness.

13 months is as good a time or perhaps better than any to launch the discovery of Mom V.2.0. I can't tell you who I'm growing into but I promise to introduce you when I find her. Choosing to find out who I am with you living in my heart instead of down the road and around the corner.

13 months and the words continue to flow—continue to speak to me and provide comfort. I'm undertaking new projects. I'm enjoying my revitalized creative side and seeing the colors in my rainbow. I am choosing to  declare 2016 to be the 'Year of Art & Story'. I'm learning how to incorporate art into journaling. I want to add to the words when telling your story for Addy & Bear in a format relatable to them now. Choosing to keep your legacy alive.

13 months and I continue to be startled by moments of disbelief when your death seems surreal.  Triggered by landscapes, memories, thin air. Wondering if maybe this is what it feels like for the soul's existence in no time no space—when in a flash too small to be measured by the physical realities of time in our world, I am deluged with feelings ranging a span of extreme elation to the depths of sadness—until reality refocuses my thought. Grief's G Force to the mind and body. Startled yet not set back—a healing choice.

13 months and I'm inviting you on this journey. Not to rescue or save me but to guide me and create with me. Maybe to change the air currents a bit if my leap of faith carries me in a direction off the path that may prove a bit more difficult than need be. Choosing to give life to new interests.

13 months and I see my relationship with you in spirit flourish. Choosing to believe that love—a forever thing ensures that I can say goodbye in a breath and hello in the next and you continue to be the Love that is the energy of Matthew. No body but such a beautiful soul.

A Prayer Matthew

As we enter our second year of missing you, please continue to soar high, capture wisdom, fly beneath the veil and make a deposit into our hearts. Direct our minds away from ego. Envelop us in kindness, respect, love and gratitude so that we may embrace these virtues and share in kind. Guide our souls until we meet—home again.

Love you forever and always

Mom

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THE LAST OF THE FIRSTS . . . MISSING MATTHEW & SARAH

2010 — COUSINS: 
MATTHEW GAVE SARAH AWAY 
ON HER WEDDING DAY

WHAT DID HE SAY TO HER?
LOOK AT THAT CHESHIRE CAT GRIN &
HER GENUINE LAUGHTER!

THIS PHOTO CAPTURES THE ESSENCE OF MATTY & SARAH
BIG PERSONALITIES IN LIFE, FILLED WITH JOY AND
HEARTS WIDE OPEN TO GIVING & RECEIVING LOVE

Grief fits like a second skin. It is always with me, under the surface. It’s not the outer covering of me but the inner covering. Skin, not something I give much thought to unless it’s dried and calloused, burned from the sun, chilled by the cold, opened by a cut, bruised, bug bitten. I may take note of the wrinkles as the years pile up, the laugh lines—what would life be like without those laugh lines? My second skin—grief, I’m not always conscious of it; it grabs my attention when it serves as a reminder that life is different now. Grief—we’ve taken it out of the darkness and illuminated it. We are having conversations about it. Discussing it like any daily topic—removing the mystery surrounding it, the fear of having to live with it, the reality that it touches us all. Grief has opened my eyes and allows me to see Life differently. It has been an awakening of sorts. Grief has taught me to look, see, absorb the beauty in things, circumstances, people. It has allowed me to slow down, reflect, feel and transform. Elements in nature I would have noticed but now take note of. How many times have I stopped to snap a sunset since you’ve died? How do I feel—awestruck, a small part of a bigger whole. Nature will always be by my side. I watch a sleeping grandchild—I’m taken on a trip down memory lane, to the past where I see you or your brother in your children. I enjoy memories. I allow emotions to wash over—no through me; bringing me back to the present asking myself what the future has in store for these small, human bundles of Love.

Beauty grabs hold of my hand and gently walks me to peace only to let go and hand me over to comfort. Comfort squeezes my hand—an action that confirms I am present and continues the walk. We meet joy, happy to have found her. Relief asks to come onboard and shouts that it can see peace. I am healing. I am being reborn into my body. I am given new eyes to see, new ears to hear, a new perspective to lighten the load—the weight of grief.

January 3rd and 7th, our Missing Matthew and Sarah year one anniversaries have passed and with the dates, the last of our FIRSTS. I’ve struggled with wanting to give Sarah a piece of my heart, mourning uninterrupted by thoughts of you—mourning time for Sarah alone. Our grief for the two of you is so great and so intertwined that it is difficult to see where one ends and the other begins. My Grief for the two of you will always be shared. Sarah and Laura were the first two I saw when I arrived at your home the day we found out you died. In the stairwell. Sarah hugged me first then Laura. A great big “I-hug-like-Matty” hug. That was the last time I’d ever see Sarah. She left me with Love, with the memory of compassion, with the feeling of family by my side. We cried together. Laura, much like Jason is alive and I am so grateful for her. She is a beautiful heart and soul and carries forward the Love and Light you and Sarah embody.

We gathered on January 3^rd, family and friends to share stories and laughs and tears. Being together worked better than thinking about you apart. You blessed me with the sound of your voice “MOM!!”. One word—caught me off guard. Your voice, inflection and volume like I’ve heard hundreds of times before when you were trying to get my attention. I double checked with Jason just in case, these signs of a continuing relationship are still new to me. He never called out. It was you; you were with us on Sunday. The kids are beautiful aren’t they? Not just physically, but their hearts as well. Bear made his way from the kitchen into the living room, got a glimpse of Jordyn and immediately with arms outstretched, walked over to her in that robotic, “I must be wearing a diaper” kind-of-way and gave her a huge hug. They’re only a little over a year old. Every time I remember that moment, a smile graces my face. They are filled with your Love and seem to be continuing the tradition that Stephanie so aptly proclaimed “In my family cousins are siblings, a glorious tradition passed on from my Dad’s generation”. Love is like a home for the heart. Its light is so strong it permeates the walls and shines its essence on every organ, muscle, tendon, joint, bone—every cell of our bodies. Love is Life. We felt yours and Sarah’s Love that day. Laura, Adam and Gretl joined us in our celebration of Life. Gretl has Sarah’s beautiful big eyes. If eyes are the window to the soul, that Little One will be teaching us plenty! She is happy, independent, crawling and tackles blocks like a seasoned engineer.

In this first year of longing, I have learned that Life can be completely and unabashedly altered in one moment. Live with Love. There is no room for regrets in a heart filled with Love. I invited Love into my life in the biggest way when I gave birth to you and your brother. Unconditional Love, one of many types yet for me, the most rewarding. Remember. Remember. Remember . . . It all comes back to Love.  In continuing to revisit the months gone by—because sometimes you need to take a look at where you’ve been to see clearly where you are going—I rediscovered a gift you’d given me. This is re-gifting in the truest sense of the Seinfeld word. The quotes, inspirational passages that I’d send your way when life threw a roadblock at you found its way back to me. A computer folder from 2007 made its way (mystery unsolved) into the electronic tax folder I was using to prep data for Nikki. Month three was especially difficult as the shock; the reality of your death was starting to settle in. I needed to let go of the “why” and accept the “what is”. The Byron Katie quote I had originally sent to you via email was lovingly sent back to me:

“ Reality is the Highest Order What is, is! 

I have simply stopped arguing with reality. How do I know the wind should blow? It's blowing. How do I know this is the highest order? It's happening. Arguing with 'what is' is like teaching a cat to bark. It's not very fulfilling. I am my friend and no longer confused. The way I know that reality is good is that when I argue the point I experience tension, fear and frustration. I lose—not sometimes, but 100% of the time. It just doesn't feel natural inside: no balance, no connection. I want reality to change? Hopeless. Let me change my thinking. Some of us mentally argue with 'what is.' Others of us attempt to control and change 'what is,' and then tell ourselves and others that we actually had something to do with any apparent change that took place. This leaves no connection or room for God in my life. In the peaceful experience of no opposition to God, I remain aware of my nature: clear, vibrant, a friend, a listener. ”
–Byron Katie

Joy returned to our lives in May, something we welcomed with open arms. Nikki’s and mine’s first road trip with the kiddos—and we have not attempted such a long trip since! I’ve thought long and hard about my grief over Nikki’s losing you. I came to the conclusion that the cherishing that accompanies married Love turns into a memory with death. It’s the small things that are no longer, the acts performed from heart to heart, the words softly spoken daily, the actions that create gratefulness in a relationship and turn the “I” into “We”. It is the completeness of Married Love. Neither I nor anyone can fix or fill this crater of a hole left in Nikki’s heart.  Your special brand of cherishing was/is yours alone. I wear my cloak of Helplessness. It comes in one size fits all and at times needs to be secured with a belt.

I learned how to carry the weight of my dead son and the joy of his living brother. I have always been in awe of seeing a massive ship floating in open waters or a bar of Ivory soap in the bathtub for that matter. Buoyancy—it’s how we stay afloat while walking through grief. The weight of grief is pushed back by the buoyancy of life. It’s that feeling of floating in water. What is below the surface holds many mysteries, murkiness and underpinnings yet when one rises above, one finds a place of calm, fresh breaths can be freely taken. There is no breathing underwater unless one is laden with the proper gear. After the effort expended, rising to the surface, it feels good to lose the breathing apparatus; resting on your back looking up—positive. Life resurfaces in grief.

The dog days of summer brought in physical pain with the mourning. I learned that Grief is a WE thing not a ME thing. I am never alone in my grief. It is shared by all who love you. We mourned in community this summer for you and Sarah. Our grieving community defeated the darkness with Grief’s kryptonite—laughter. Addy (same birth date as Sarah) and Bear’s Great Birthday Adventure brought the families and friends together. We toasted, roasted, ate and drank well while the kids jumped in their Bouncy House with thoughts of Elsa Princesses dancing in their heads (yes, even Bear Bear).

Wise words from you Matthew, in spirit:

Fall ushered in another layer of Grief. Your death, the loss of the physical you shook me to the core. I became a seeker, searching for answers to life’s major questions. Who am I? Why am I here? Is there a God? Is He/She a good God? Where do we go when we die? What is this life for? Why is there such sorrow, loss, devastation, unfairness?

My thoughts in September: “Grief—it’s taken up residence. Unlike the voice that we carry around in our heads, grief is greedy. It doesn’t want just one body part, one organ—it wants your everything. I can feel it in my body. It slithered in and took hold. It feels like a wool sweater washed in hot water, shrunken beyond good use. It is uncomfortable. It does not fit properly. It constricts. It causes tightness. It blisters my insides. It is not my friend. It is not my teacher YET. There is no evicting grief. Grief is with me for all seasons. It’s too soon for me to recognize and understand her purpose but an agenda she surely has. I can never return to who I was as you are carrying a part of me with you, so perhaps she will help me become who I am meant to be. Evolve—transform—reconnect—live—love, love, love. We are not friends. I must learn how to live with her until we learn to work together. She makes me tired, very tired. I look over the edge of the abyss that is the dark night of the soul and like a lemming; I want to let myself walk over. Sink to the bottom. Curl up into a fetal position. Ride out the storm. I’ve been here before. This time I’ve learned that you can’t crawl your way out. Much easier to be lifted out. Lifted by love, by prayers, by time. It is amazing to me that life goes on after such a loss. It’s harder to move when you are broken. I feel like I am living in a parallel universe, able to see what is going on in the present yet unable to participate. I just want my universe to stop for a while. I want to sleep. I want to not care. I want to heal. None of these elements singularly hold the key to healing. I know it is my journey and it’s not just a journey through grief. It’s a journey to the return to life. I seem to need a jumpstart.”

Another season, a new wash of emotions, a need to feel, a need to still, a need to reflect. The month heralded more signs from you, validating that our Love is forever. It was the balm I needed for my broken heart, my jumpstart. You continue to watch over your family. We are learning to read your signs and take great comfort from your new way of communicating. My favorite was the morning of Dad’s birthday, November 8th. I had Jaelyn and Addy for a sleepover. Sometimes, when Addy awakens, she needs a dose of extra loving care and cuddles. Jaelyn was her favorite person this particular morning. I had set up a twin airbed in the back bedroom, Addy’s chosen spot. Jaelyn crawled into bed with her and as they were giggling and snuggling I explained to them that when Bampy heard our voices, he would come in and say Good Morning. Today was his birthday and we should start singing as soon as he opened the door. All went as planned, Dad opened the door, the girls sang and the surprise came from the humidifier that had run out of water pre-dawn. The red light was on signaling the machine was empty. As soon as the girls started singing, the humidifier turned on and the heaviest cool mist accompanied their sweet voices. Song over—so was the humidifier. I don’t understand the mysteries of the afterlife, yet I gratefully accept its’ blessings.

At nine months—birth and death; the timeframe brought me to the realization that the only correlation between the two is the waiting. There is much waiting with birth—the anticipation of a new life, the tiny human that will soon grace the family, the celebration. Nine months after death, the waiting—there is no celebration; there is still a lot of waiting. Waiting for the ache to hurt a little less, the tears to slow down, waiting to adjust to the finality of what death is.

In October I participated in an online healing project—30 days of mindful healing and reflection. The project proved to be too overwhelming for me. Not enough time to deal with the raw emotions that were raised. Time to raise yet not enough time to process. It solidified that healing is hard, hard work. For as many steps forward I was able to take, I was also walking a few backwards. Such goes the dance with Grief. I did meet some wonderful people online and have added to my support network. The project left me to contemplate the interconnectedness of Acceptance, Adjustment, Attachments and Letting go. These are the cornerstones of my grief journey. Four phases if you will. Impossible to experience one without being touched by the others. I learned that being brave is a far better state of being than strong. Brave works well with courageous. Together they create a net of safety that catches the pieces of your shattered emotional self. Pieces that break and fall because you feel safe enough to walk through, to fully feel the pain accompanying early grief, to let go into mourning. There is no need for the shattered to try and stay woven together. When the time is right, the pieces are there for rebuilding. Wiser, more patient, compassionate, more understanding; renewed with the desire to LIVE, to Love, to laugh, to experience peace and joy. “You are so strong” a statement uttered often in praise at the perception of a bereaved “moving on” is misspoken in my opinion. When one is strong, the mask worn usually hides the pain of mourning that has been pushed aside allowing reentry into daily living. If mourning is not given its due, it complicates grief at a later date. Being strong implies that one is not excessively emotional, crying is under control, Grief is compartmentalized and the tasks of daily living are adequately being handled. It’s much easier to be around a person who is strong rather than one who is brave. There is no “moving on” with brave, just “moving through”. Brave feels every emotion, sits with the uncomfortable, allows it to wash over and through until pain takes on a new softness, a new shape. Brave speaks of their beloved, cries when sabotaged by an inopportune moment of grief, walks through the tasks of daily living while struggling with finding the right fit for the garment of grief now worn permanently. Strong is destructive to the self. Brave is the normal state for a bereaved that is walking the journey to healing.

. . . And then the Holiday Season was upon us. So many special dates, celebrations, feelings of good cheer. So many holidays in such a short period of time. What we were presented with was your empty chair at Thanksgiving, the silence of your enthusiasm over Christmas, the lack of your meal preparations to escort in the New Year. The season was filled with angst. Putting up the Christmas Tree and holding each ornament with its accompanying Matty memory was painful. Christmas music brought tears. Egg nog was so thick it choked rather than pleased the palate. The magic went out of Christmas for your brother this year. Memories of Christmases past fuel us forward. The kids are the next generation, brought into this world by the great force of Love you have for your mates. We are their teachers. They’ve felt the sadness, the heaviness of death. We owe it to them to experience and feel the joy this world has to offer. This is the part of grief where our parental nurturing instincts howl and fight against our healing efforts. We sit with the joy and the ache. It is the price of mature love after loss. We search for some semblance of balance in our broken-ness so that we can help the little ones revel in the joy of the season—knowing full well there will be plenty of ache in life’s offerings. We’ve built a strong support system. We know self-care is crucial. If this is one of the times we need a break to float on our backs, to get a taste of what air feels like, smells like, tastes like, then we ask for help—we reach out to others wearing their scuba gear or deep dive apparatus or their compassion and we ask for help! We ask for help so that the children can feel the joy without having to feel the ache. A great example of “it takes a village to raise a child”.

I was wishing, hoping against hope that the end of 2015 would bring about an end to the hardships faced in the most difficult year of my life. In reality a year ends, a calendar page turns, the ups and downs of life continue to emerge. It’s the first week of 2016, Dad has had surgery on his thumb, rendering his right hand immobile for over a week; a beloved Aunt is currently hospitalized for pneumonia; colds, coughs and flu continue to plague the Bigs and the Littles. Manageable roadblocks yet when looked at through the lens of loss, as explained to me by my grief counselor, trigger the implicit memories of the trauma we’ve just lived through—trauma resurrected and the breath gets knocked out of my center.

The lesson—we are not in control. We can hope, we can strive, we can walk towards relief, peace, joy and happiness—towards healing. Expect detours and roadblocks along the way. Do not sit with discouragement, adjust thinking, tweak perspective.  Learn how to get around, go through, jump over the hurdles presented. C.S. Lewis was spot on when he titled his book A Grief Observed. Grief the teacher, at times requires that you become the observer and not the participant in your story. Peace can be grasped by finding a way to still the mind, quiet the ego. Observing allows our spirit, our inner guide to be heard. Keep my heart open. Live my faith. It is so much more than quotations, words and phrases. Allow the action of Love to guide. Love, it all comes back to Love. Living Love with you in my heart Sweet One. I may never see you grow older, yet I’m sure I’ll continue to see you grow wiser. Our journey does not end here.

I love you. Forever and ever and ever and always.

Mom

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SANTA BABY . . . YOU TAKE OUR BLAH HUMBUGS AWAY

BEAR THOMAS MATTHEW ALLARD
Photo by Beth Boyce. Used with permission. 

Well . . . made it through the Christmases—Eve and Day. So much to talk about. So much emotion. So much heartsickness. So much joy. So much reminiscing. So many tears.

The second half of the month did not get any easier than the first. Sue Benson, in true simpatico fashion, came over to help decorate the tree. We set the tree up in its stand, gave it a good drink of water and then waited for the limbs to drop. We wrapped presents that had been purchased online and arrived in a timely manner. Together, we tackled the bins that contain the family Christmas garnishing. We unwrapped ornaments and organized the layers of embellishments that would bedeck the beautiful tree. It was a fun afternoon. She asked about the ornaments and I retold and relived the story of each pretty little thing that allowed it to earn its rightful place on the tree. You were such a big part of the core theme of the tree. Remember when you and I found the earth colored garland and tree bark covered trinkets at the Bedford Mall? You were in high school and we changed our tree around that year. Jason got a kick out of that story—Matthew shopping with Mom for Christmas goodies! The tree topper still stands a purchase on one of our many missions to the Big City from a boutique store on Atlantic Ave in Brooklyn. The memories were so great, the emotions so high that it took me another six days to finish decorating the tree. 

I’ve been so entwined in our Past, Present and Future this month. Where one ends—may it be a memory, an event, an old Christmas letter—it stands on its own in the past then morphs into the beginning of the present and together they will herald what is to come of our future.

I was blessed with two great gifts this Christmas. The first came from Beth, your WingWoman. After a very emotional conversation that we shared, she (probably unbeknownst to her) created the seeds of awareness that led to many phone and text conversations, with laughter through tears, with my siblings and others very concerned about the expectations and lack of for our traditional family celebration. Feelings that had been stirring, stewing for quite a while—feelings with no name, feelings that were well known to my soul, living in my heart, lacking clarity in my mind and unable to utter a sound through my voice were suddenly noticed, acknowledged and released from the angst that was taking up precious space on my path to healing. We were able to walk into the air of celebration together with the strongest bonds of familial love sitting in everyone’s heart.

My second great gift came from you—your sign to Nikki that you were with us Christmas Eve. It was a quiet sign, a private sign, a much needed sign. As Nikki was rocking, soothing, comforting Bear during her nightly routine, she found herself in a darkened room at Auntie Ham’s and Uncle Dick’s (Addy’s new name for Auntie Pam). Missing you, filled with lonely love, Nikki started to speak to you. “Are you here tonight? I want you to be. Please send me a sign.” Her next thought was “what can he do, I am in a darkened room?” Baby Bear pulls out his pacifier, says “Dada” and starts laughing. By touching her heart, you touched all of ours. You are only a thought away!

Collin and Bear Bear are sporting your embroidered corduroy Christmas pants, continuing your tradition. We’re starting a new one—I hope you heard. A different Christmas Eve called for a break in tradition. I wanted to speak to our Past, Present and Future. I wanted to toast our Beloved whom had gone to the Other Side while bringing you all into our Present. Our Present now holds seven little souls waiting to learn about us from us. I thought of the very inspiring words you had sent me months ago to help me along my journey. This toast was the opportune time to allow the message to continue healing. Our new tradition will include a toast to the Past, Present and Future bringing you into our Christmas celebrations—allowing you to be a part of our Present. We’ll take turns penning an annual toast. We are Family Strong. 

MESSAGE INSPIRED BY MATTHEW IN SPIRIT

. . . and here I sit, the day after Christmas. Reflecting on how flat my emotions were Christmas Day. The utter fatigue and exhaustion that come from living through the ‘Firsts’ took over. I wanted to take the tree down to be done with this Holiday Season. Instead, I got a good look at the ache that sits with the joy and realized that it is an invisible weight, the weight of a heartsickness that sits on my chest. A weight that makes breathing a concerted effort. A weight of a new landscape that must be explored—a weight that must be carried. A weight that is a part of my new normal. I’ve taken this opportunity to sit with the ‘flat’ and this weight, and am trying to bring this feeling into the present—where healing occurs. The tree remains standing for one more day. I’ve added the hand-made gingerbread ornaments Elouise gave to Dad and I. I’ve added the Present and our Future to this tree of ours that holds so much of the Past. 

ADDY ROSE ALLARD SNOW ANGEL
Photo by Kerri Anne

I’m thinking of your little Snow Angel. I look at that innocence. I look at that joy and wonder. One day, in the not so distant future, her little heart will discover that joy sits beside the ache in this life and that it is OK. I’ll teach her that our Love for Daddy is a Forever Thing, and he’s shown us that he is only a thought away. I’ll show her that we heal from tragedy. I’ll surround her in the magnetism of Love. I’ll heal so that I can help heal her. Addy knows that when we want a feeling, or a memory to stick that we ‘rub it in’. I’m going to rub in the comfort of old memories, the blessedness of the lives you’ve left us with. I’m taking the time to rub in the tools I’m learning on this journey to healing. Stay in the present. It all comes back to Love. I am not alone. I can laugh through the tears. I use my voice to connect, comfort and receive as well. The web that holds onto grief is large enough to hold onto Love as well. Grief is a teacher. Love is healing.

A prayer Matthew—

Create a bridge between the joy and the ache

So that we may always find our way home from one to the other

Gently remind us that our past holds the key to our present and our future

Let us visit the past, rejoice in it, yet move it forward

Help us to find our healing in the Present

Bring guidance and light into our Future

Captain our teaching of the Little Ones

Love you Forever and Always—Missing you Forevermore
Mom

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THE HOLIDAY—GREENS, REDS AND BLUES!

CHRISTMAS 2014.

 ‘GRANDCHILDREN’S TREE’ 

FEELING THE NEED TO GIVE LIFE TO IN 2015

I need your Spirit ear. I need you to hear, to listen. The feelings of anger—the angst, maybe the angst—that’s what I'm really feeling towards the Christmas Holiday Season. They are the unsettled feelings before that moment of clarity illuminates. As life goes on for the rest of the world, when the ordinary-ness takes hold, when the mundane tasks cannot be accomplished because the brain reverts back to acute grief and humanity loses her patience; this is when the first sense of alienation settled in. Different.  I’m different now. How can this holiday be the same? It cannot, will not—Matthew you will never again be in the physical with us. Different is not a bad thing—it’s simply a new thing. The pain comes from trying to recreate the past instead of embracing the present. The love we have for you will never leave us. Your Spirit will forever be a part of us. We can bring you into the festivities and allow you to regale us with the stories and memories you’ve left us. If the tears flow—so be it. You’d cry for us if we were departed. Keep your Spirit alive. Is there a better way to show the children that life goes on after death—that their Daddy, their Uncle, their Cousin will never be forgotten? That we can ‘rub-in’ this Christmas Eve and Christmas Day as the start of a new beginning; an homage to the past Eves’ and Days’ we’ve shared—to the wonderful souls of our family now watching us from Above.  It’s sad, it’s teary but we are so very blessed to be graced by so much LOVE.

Pain needs to be given its rightful place. It cries for expression. It does not diminish joy or gratefulness. It’s just not discussed often, nor in depth. It stews most often in silence and erupts in anger, or more damaging to the soul into depression. Death etiquette. That is what I have been concerned about. I say to hell with Amy Vanderbilt’s Complete Book of Etiquette! Out of frustration with the manner in which death and grieving are viewed, I wanted to see what the source had to say. From the Index, death in extended families falls in the middle of anniversaries and See also Funerals. It falls after death in colleague’s family, engagement announcements when a parent is deceased and euphamisms. It appears before mourning periods, occurrence of and spouse’s death. It gives the bereaved such advice as not to be disappointed in those incapable of helping you through this time, those that retreat . . . but “with a small gesture that the time is right” they may resurface. Shocking to me that the onus is placed on the bereaved. The feelings of alienation are making more sense to me now. I close this book. At this moment, the phoenix in me rises from a depth so deep so dark and so new to me. It shoots to the sky, encircles my being, and in the sounds of the flapping of its wings, a voice is emitted—the voice of grief. It cuts through the wind and howls to the world “Open your hearts. LET HER BE. HER SON IS DEAD! Have you learned nothing from her pain? Release your empathy and show your compassion or will you wait until your own tragedy strikes and then your broken-ness will take the lead that guides and teaches. You cannot escape death, you cannot escape grief. It waits in the shadows ready, willing and able to pounce. Her pain and the pain of all parents, siblings, husbands and wives that have gone before are lessons that have been presented to help with the understanding that this journey was never meant to be travelled alone. The path —yes, unique and individual, the hard work can only be accomplished by one. Accept the teaching of these lessons; create communities of safe, sacred places where the injured hearts have a soft place to rest until they begin their healing and relinquish their space to the next broken heart—which may be yours. Your bereaved brothers and sisters do not need your silence. They need your warmth, your love, your acceptance. Their pain needs to be seen, acknowledged, given reverence and seated at its rightful place next to the joy and gratitude that they work so diligently to uncover. Go ahead—touch it. It may hurt, it may blind, it may shake you to your core. It may fill you with fear and thoughts that you religiously push away. Adorn yourself in your cloak of humanity. Kindness always protects. Why you ask, WHY is this necessary of me — because a child has died and mourning and grieving must take place. A child that lived, that loved, that made a difference to you or perhaps someone like you. WHY WOULDN’T YOU, I ask. ”

As I finished typing the last sentence from the paragraph above, you my dear Matthew, seeing the confusion, sensing the despair, the mourning of lost hopes and dreams—you send me a lifeline. Not only a lifeline for me, but a beautiful lesson, a way of expanding the heart to help, to hold the hand of the bereaved. My Facebook Instant Message notifications rings and this is what I am graced with. With permission, I share:

“Hi Diane, not often in my life am I speechless, since God gave me such a gift of gab! But I have been trying to think of words for you. Hard though, because I know nothing is comforting. I SO remember the first Christmas after Jen, my niece was killed! It was horrible. I could not stand the pain my sister was going thru. She didn't want to celebrate anything , and I respected her. But it drove me crazy. So know what I did? I came up with the philosophy that if I can’t make my sister smile, I will make others smile. Grant and I and our kids adopted 3 families. I shopped for them and we personally delivered their gifts. It was the most emotional experience Diane. The first couple was elderly and alone. NO family. The husband was in a nursing home with the wife by his side. We went to the nursing home to bring them gifts. They cried and were so grateful. The 2^nd family was also elderly, no family. The husband was blind and the wife had broken her arm. They lived in an apartment near one of our local high schools. They were waiting for us, watching out their window. We brought them meals and gifts. They were so cute and grateful. BUT the third family was VERY emotional. They lived in center city, originally from Africa. 5 kids and their Dad had just died. They proceeded to sing us a song. Diane, their voices were heavenly. The words in their native language. After they were done, I asked what the words meant. And they said they were grateful to us and we were a Godsend! The gifts we brought were the ONLY ones under their tree. 5 kids and a single Mom! We all had tears. Even my macho teenage son and husband. It was horrible that year that I could do NOTHING for my sister, but at least we could make other people smile. I am sharing this not for a pat on the back, just because I wish I could make you feel better but I can’t! However, every year I adopt a Senior from St. Joseph’s Community Center and this year added a bit more, just to honor you, my friend, in this ##%$#**??? up time in your life. BUT it just doesn’t seem like enough. Can I see you? Can I help you prepare food or festivities? Can I clean your house? Can I just hug you? Just wanted you to know how often I think of you. Love Sue (Benson)”

My pain got its due. I was able to speak its hurt and you heard. As such, you helped me make room for gratefulness to return. I could barely read the words through the tears. This woman, this friend, this heart wide open gave me the most precious of gifts this year. I release my pain. I accept Different. I accept that this Christmas and its Eve will be days of being for me in whatever frame of emotion I am feeling. Doing is something I will look forward to next year. Finding joy while living with the ache . . . this is so difficult at times. Thank you for Peace, Matthew. Thank you Sue for being you.

Love you forever and always Sweetheart—

Mom

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GOLDEN LIGHT FOREVER'MOR

GIF BY AESTHETICCOLORS

I’ve been thinking a lot lately Matthew, about how you may look in Spirit. I came across this GIF file the other day and it made my heart skip a beat. I believe this may be you. Fly free, fly high, soar my Sweetheart—you’re not earthbound anymore! I hear, I read that death is nothing more than a transformation of energy to a different dimension—Heaven. Look at the transformations this bird goes through! Infinite orbs of golden light—shining, twinkling, changing shape and size. Are these your memories, your personality and character traits? Are you held together by Love? Consciousness, the soul does not have a physical body, yet I can see you, through you, around you. You are here, then there. Are you everywhere—a thought, a breath, a scent, a vision of beauty, a sound? Looks as though you are spreading light? Is this how we feel you—does your Love leave a trail of laughter and joy, are you filling our hearts with comfort, our souls with peace? Your energy appears forceful, strong, determined. You are Light you are Love—you continue to live in our hearts, our souls, in the Beyond. We are connected, we are One.

Eleven months. Thinking it, saying it out loud, seeing the number in print—the numbness is returning. Waking up in the dark is different than waking up to dawn. The dark is gloomy. Cold winter weather is gloomy. Dawn and light represent hope. I need to find something positive that represents the dark and cold. I woke up before Dad this morning. I lay in bed, immobilized for a few minutes. I heard Dad stir. Silence and then an audible, long sigh—that moment you are reminded—another day without Matthew. I could hear words in that sigh. Men and women grieve so differently. That sigh was heartbreaking. His grieving carries a lot of silence. I asked him the other day what he misses about you and his answer was the furthest possible from mine. He misses the animated discussions, the passion, the escalating voices, the varying points of view, your uncoachable ways! I didn’t ask him why, I was so stunned. My mother’s heart would get overwhelmed at those times. I’m not one for rowdy conversation. Quiet and polite suits me better. I know all the words to Kumbaya. I bet Dad could see you most alive when you were trying to share your point of view. He loved the way your mind worked. Me, I miss the hugs, the phone calls, the visits. I miss you being alive, here with me. I miss our complete family unit. Could be the holidays—they are difficult?  We made it through Thanksgiving. Tough day for me, as you and I connected in a special way through cooking. I made sure the mashed potatoes had no tears mixed in with the butter and the milk. We put quite a few sides on hold until next year when Jason, Beth and the girls will join us for Thanksgiving. I missed your turkey day production schedule, your timed sides, your kitchen voice when joining in the conversation. Your football game noises were absent. The only men in the house—Dad and Bear and he’s too young to do the speedy two-hand touchdown clapping cheer that you and Jason have mastered to a T.

I came across an expression recently that hits a high note in my grief journey—"the saddest joy"*  an example that grief lives in me forever. Even though time has shown me that I can make peace with sadness, it also teaches me that my emotions are felt so differently since grief has taken up residence; sharing every emotion from the bittersweet to the joyous. It is a full way of feeling on the inside. It’s a halfway show of feeling on the outside—half of the emotion gets suppressed, hidden like a dirty secret. Another reason why Grief needs to be better understood. Feelings, emotions and expressions become contradicting corroborations; sometimes both sides felt at once, other times side by side. Have you ever experienced angry pleasure, helpless strength, guilty freedom, anxious serenity, lonely love, fearful courage, uncertain security, confused organization, bitter sweetness, irritable calm, painful relief the very saddest joy? Is this how you felt when Andrew died? When you wrestled with your Grief? . . . And the words I have associated with Grief: wrestled, tussled, grappled, friend, enemy, teacher, joy, ache, sadness, sorrow. From one end of the spectrum to the other; I have never met a more complicated process.

At nine months I was trying to decipher the normal in Grief. With thoughts racing and perhaps over-thinking; was I creating an obsession, was I stuck in the past? I asked myself:

 “Is it normal to continually look at my cell phone screen photo and ask WHY when I know that question is not going to be answered in a manner that will make my heart stop bleeding? Is it normal to touch that photo, push back that stray strand of hair away from your eyes? Is it normal to stroke your cheeks remembering all the kisses planted softly? Is it normal to be doing this daily after nine months have passed? Is it normal to not notice the tears until the photo blurs? Is it normal to yearn for more than the memories? ” What is normal is to experience a love so strong, so deep, so unconditional and to know it will never die. I miss you so much Matthew.

At eleven months I am still searching but have learned to surrender. I’m holding onto that photo. I still kiss your cheek. Yes, this act of Love is very normal—a normal expression of grief. It is my anxious/tranquil moment. Will the ability to perceive you as other than your physical self move me a step forward? Another question that will remain unanswered for now. And so I continue to live in that place with the joy and the ache . . .

A prayer, Matthew—

Remove the fingerprints from my lenses

Let me see with clarity

Feel without contradiction

Hold my hand in the dark

Continue to apply balm to my heart

As you feed peace to my soul

Walk with me through fear and loneliness

Give me a glimpse of the changed, new me.

Love you Forever and Always,
Mom

*facebook comment Carol Leonard Death Expo Public Group Page

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