Here is today's entry in the book I read every morning, Healing After Loss: Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief by Martha Whitmore Hickman.
How much time we spend anguishing over a future without the one we love—anticipating all the times we would have expected that person to be present with us, sharing our life.
Yet the future is unknown to us. We ourselves may not be present at these events we look toward anticipating grief. Why spend the energy of our lives on an unknowable future when the present world lies all around us, moment by moment, day by day? There is grief enough here. But we do not need to compound that grief by projecting ourselves into a time beyond our knowledge or control.
Affirmation:
I feel wonderful freedom when I stop imagining my future sadness and live only in the present.
Absence
I apologize for not blogging in a long time. I have a list of topics I need to write but haven't been able to sit down and write in a long time. Hang on. I'll post something new soon. Thanks for checking in ya'll. And don't forget to leave a comment if you'd like.
Personal Items - Part 1
Bob was born in Harrogate, England. My parents lived there while my dad was working for NSA. It was something that my brother always thought special; the fact that he was born in another country just added another layer to his interesting life. He always carried a metal British flag/Union Jack keychain on his keys. On the back it says, Made in England. I don't remember if he told me where he got it. Maybe he found it or bought it. I don't know. I wish I knew. Because I now carry it on my keys. It's damaged, pieces of the enamel have fallen off from years of being attached to my brother's keys. Keys to his VW van, keys to his Jeep Commando, keys to his red Ford pick up truck. Keys to his home, his potter's studio.
I think it's really important to carry something around everyday that was once owned by the departed. I have many of Bob's possessions, as I've mentioned before, but to have something so small, something so meaningful, and be able to carry it with me every single day and look at it when I'm at a stoplight, glance down at it when I'm at the grocery store, it just really warms my heart and is extremely comforting. I suggest you carry something, too. A piece of jewelry, maybe, a patch of fabric from a t-shirt, a photo of them you know they liked. Wear it on your finger, around your neck, keep it in your pocket, or place it somewhere in your car where you can see it every day. That way, they are always with us. Always.
After the Holidays
The holidays are over thank goodness. Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy the holidays to some extent, but they’re not the same, obviously. November through January is a very difficult time for those who have lost a loved one. There is heartache, happiness, confusion, joy, depression, and for me personally, an indulgence in pasta.
December 2006, two months after my brother passed away, I attended a ‘getting through the holidays without your loved one’ seminar at the local hospice. There were about 20 people there--teenagers and older folks, men and women. Little did I know at that time (because I was still in a complete fog), it was going to be so helpful each holiday season thereafter. The two women speaking from hospice were extremely knowledgeable and kind. They talked about how the grieving process is a roller coaster; we made memory keepsakes of our loved ones; we shared our stories if we wanted; and one really wonderful thing they did was give us a little gold jingle bell on a ribbon. It was to signify how much ‘jingle’ --happiness for the season-- we wanted to allow ourselves to have. If we wanted to be a part of the joyfulness of the season, then we can hold it in our hand and jingle it for as long as we wanted. If we’re not feeling in the mood for the holidays, then maybe just one shake of the bell would do. No matter how we felt about the holiday season, we were told that it was okay if we didn’t want a lot of ‘jingle’ this time of year.
It was such a simple gift yet so effective. I have kept that little bell on a stand in my foyer ever since. I look at it every day and remind myself that--even though the holiday season is over-- I am the one who has control over whether or not I want ‘jingle’ as I go about my day and it’s okay to want a lot or none at all.
I encourage those who have lost a loved one to contact your local hospice. They are not only incredible caregivers, they have programs and counseling on bereavement. Click here to find the local hospice near you.
December 2006, two months after my brother passed away, I attended a ‘getting through the holidays without your loved one’ seminar at the local hospice. There were about 20 people there--teenagers and older folks, men and women. Little did I know at that time (because I was still in a complete fog), it was going to be so helpful each holiday season thereafter. The two women speaking from hospice were extremely knowledgeable and kind. They talked about how the grieving process is a roller coaster; we made memory keepsakes of our loved ones; we shared our stories if we wanted; and one really wonderful thing they did was give us a little gold jingle bell on a ribbon. It was to signify how much ‘jingle’ --happiness for the season-- we wanted to allow ourselves to have. If we wanted to be a part of the joyfulness of the season, then we can hold it in our hand and jingle it for as long as we wanted. If we’re not feeling in the mood for the holidays, then maybe just one shake of the bell would do. No matter how we felt about the holiday season, we were told that it was okay if we didn’t want a lot of ‘jingle’ this time of year.
It was such a simple gift yet so effective. I have kept that little bell on a stand in my foyer ever since. I look at it every day and remind myself that--even though the holiday season is over-- I am the one who has control over whether or not I want ‘jingle’ as I go about my day and it’s okay to want a lot or none at all.
I encourage those who have lost a loved one to contact your local hospice. They are not only incredible caregivers, they have programs and counseling on bereavement. Click here to find the local hospice near you.
These Days Vol. 4
1. Rusty Nails / 4:32 / Moderat
2. Zero / 4:26 / Yeah Yeah Yeahs
3. Drunk Fun In London / 5:44 / Vincent Oliver
4. Fifths / 6:19 / Deadmau5
5. Green Eyed Love (Classixx Remix) / 5:08 / Mayer Hawthorne
6. Ashes On the Fire / 4:26 / Richard Hawley
7. Tom Sawyer / 4:34 / Rush
8. Ring the Bell / 4:23 / YACHT
9. Puppy Toy / 3:30 / Tricky
10. Too Late to Think / 4:00 / Slaraffenland
11. Velvet / 4:12 / The Big Pink
12. Forget My Name (feat. Hot Chip) / 4:20 / Jesse Rose
13. Brass In Pocket / 3:06 / Pretenders
14. Heartbreaker (feat. John Legend) / 3:13 / MSTRKRFT
15. At Forest Edge / 5:49 / Vetiver
16. Headphone Space / 4:47 / A Sunny Day In Glasgow
17. My Last Days on Earth / 4:39 / Bill Monroe
2. Zero / 4:26 / Yeah Yeah Yeahs
3. Drunk Fun In London / 5:44 / Vincent Oliver
4. Fifths / 6:19 / Deadmau5
5. Green Eyed Love (Classixx Remix) / 5:08 / Mayer Hawthorne
6. Ashes On the Fire / 4:26 / Richard Hawley
7. Tom Sawyer / 4:34 / Rush
8. Ring the Bell / 4:23 / YACHT
9. Puppy Toy / 3:30 / Tricky
10. Too Late to Think / 4:00 / Slaraffenland
11. Velvet / 4:12 / The Big Pink
12. Forget My Name (feat. Hot Chip) / 4:20 / Jesse Rose
13. Brass In Pocket / 3:06 / Pretenders
14. Heartbreaker (feat. John Legend) / 3:13 / MSTRKRFT
15. At Forest Edge / 5:49 / Vetiver
16. Headphone Space / 4:47 / A Sunny Day In Glasgow
17. My Last Days on Earth / 4:39 / Bill Monroe
11 - 17 - 67
Bob would have been 42 years old today. It's amazing how fast time flies, especially these days, being in my thirties. Everyone my age–and older–comments regularly on how fast time is flying. It's true. I remember just yesterday my brother and I both being "teenagers"— for only a couple of months. I turned 13 in September and he was 19, soon to turn 20 in November 1987.
So this is the third birthday in a row I haven't been able to talk to Bob. I can't wish him a Happy Birthday and send him cds or silly things we can laugh about.
But I'm okay, I guess. I'm still surviving this...
I set aside time this evening to be with him. I toasted a drink to him, talked to him in the dark while observing the few stars I could see after the sun went down. Tonight for dinner I am going to prepare Thai chicken satay because he loved Thai food, as do I.
I talked to my dad tonight. He went fishing early this morning "with Bob" on a deserted Carolina beach and then he said he and mom golfed together in the afternoon. It's been 3 years since their baby boy passed away. Their baby boy who was born in England 42 years ago today, 5:35 p.m. to be exact. That thought hurts me the most– my lovely parents losing their son. But to hear my dad talk about how mom is improving in golf, how he had the entire beach to himself for miles, how he grilled hamburgers for dinner...was wonderful. People CAN survive after loss. It is not easy, but we're enduring the days, even as fast as they are...
September
It's September 4, 2009. I'll turn 35 in 2 days. The air feels heavy and anxious this time of year. 3 years ago, September of 2006, is when I visited my parents at their new condo in North Carolina. Bob was going to come down, too, since he lived only hours away but work overwhelmed him. As a potter, he was very busy in the fall, getting ready for an annual Thanksgiving fair where he could make some good money selling his pottery. I remember sitting at the glass table in the new condo as my dad called Bob and talked to him. We all sat there smiling and kind of laughing. Bob must have been saying something funny on the other line. I remember my dad asking if I wanted to talk to him but I said I'd call him later. I didn't know that a month later he'd be gone.
Bob used to always call me on my birthday and send a gift, usually a few weeks late. When he passed away October 2, and I was at his home solemnly looking through his things, there was a small cardboard box on a chair that had my address written on it with a black Sharpie. There it was, the birthday present he was eventually going to send me. It was the book Marley and Me. I still have it, in the box, unread.
They say birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays are the worst for the bereaved. It's true. I would always look forward to my brother calling me on my birthday, sometimes leaving funny messages on my voice mail if I didn't answer. But now, I'm somewhat afraid of September 6th. Just knowing I won't get that call from my brother still fills me with anxiety.
Bob used to always call me on my birthday and send a gift, usually a few weeks late. When he passed away October 2, and I was at his home solemnly looking through his things, there was a small cardboard box on a chair that had my address written on it with a black Sharpie. There it was, the birthday present he was eventually going to send me. It was the book Marley and Me. I still have it, in the box, unread.
They say birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays are the worst for the bereaved. It's true. I would always look forward to my brother calling me on my birthday, sometimes leaving funny messages on my voice mail if I didn't answer. But now, I'm somewhat afraid of September 6th. Just knowing I won't get that call from my brother still fills me with anxiety.
Crying Time
I cried every day for two years after Bob's death. Every single day. Mornings, in the shower, I cried heavily and loudly because no one could hear me and the water streaming down my face would carry the tears with it to the drain. During the afternoons, I sought out unoccupied public restrooms to shed tears. When I left work, I cried in the private sanctuary of my car. In the evenings I cried on the couch in the guest room, looking out at the moon through the narrow window that faces the Bay.
After the second anniversary, the crying episodes have become less frequent. I've noticed I rarely spend long amounts of time crying; rather, I have outbursts. I'll also experience several days, sometimes weeks at a time, when I feel very fragile, and the tears come and go, and my mood drifts from high to low.
Looking into the mirror now, possibly having cried more in the past two years than my entire lifetime before my brother's death, I see anguish. My eyes have gone through hell! They've had no rest in almost three years! They look heavy and sullen, like I've aged too quickly, or, better yet, incorrectly.
No one ever warns you of the strain your eyes will have to endure. I've realized this is the reason my eyes have become so sensitive to light. Sunglasses are a necessity to me more than ever before. I block out the light coming from the ceiling lights at work with a makeshift cardboard obstruction. I keep my brightness settings on my computer as dim as they will go.
This is just another element of grief. The physical toll it takes on our appearance is obvious, and more evidence that our lives have forever changed.
After the second anniversary, the crying episodes have become less frequent. I've noticed I rarely spend long amounts of time crying; rather, I have outbursts. I'll also experience several days, sometimes weeks at a time, when I feel very fragile, and the tears come and go, and my mood drifts from high to low.
Looking into the mirror now, possibly having cried more in the past two years than my entire lifetime before my brother's death, I see anguish. My eyes have gone through hell! They've had no rest in almost three years! They look heavy and sullen, like I've aged too quickly, or, better yet, incorrectly.
No one ever warns you of the strain your eyes will have to endure. I've realized this is the reason my eyes have become so sensitive to light. Sunglasses are a necessity to me more than ever before. I block out the light coming from the ceiling lights at work with a makeshift cardboard obstruction. I keep my brightness settings on my computer as dim as they will go.
This is just another element of grief. The physical toll it takes on our appearance is obvious, and more evidence that our lives have forever changed.
A Favorite Quote
From Healing After Loss, July 3:
"Everyone can master a grief but he that has it" -- William Shakespeare
Every grief has its own timetable, which only the griever knows. And usually the journey through grief is slow and often delayed.
"Everyone can master a grief but he that has it" -- William Shakespeare
Every grief has its own timetable, which only the griever knows. And usually the journey through grief is slow and often delayed.
Why the Good People?
Why did Bob have to die? Why was he taken from my parents and I? Why not someone who is evil, a murderer, a child molester. Not only my life, but the whole entire earth benefited from him being a part of it. He had such a good soul. He was genuine and generous.
I recently read an article about a couple who had been married for 40+ years and were inseparable, high school sweethearts. Along with their distinguished careers serving the public, they volunteered throughout their lives, helping others live better lives. They gave and they gave and they gave. Then they were killed in the Washington, DC Metro crash. Why were they taken?
The world suddenly but silently changes when good people die. And we are left empty, distraught, confused, asking questions that have no answers. At least, no answers that fill the void in our hearts.
I recently read an article about a couple who had been married for 40+ years and were inseparable, high school sweethearts. Along with their distinguished careers serving the public, they volunteered throughout their lives, helping others live better lives. They gave and they gave and they gave. Then they were killed in the Washington, DC Metro crash. Why were they taken?
The world suddenly but silently changes when good people die. And we are left empty, distraught, confused, asking questions that have no answers. At least, no answers that fill the void in our hearts.
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