Grief and the Holidays.... It's Hard!

Hosting an
“All feelings welcome” dinner

For the full story..... (control and click)

For people struggling with grief or other challenges, the holidays—and all the cheer

  that goes with them—can be a painful reminder of what they lost or yearn for. 

There are things we can do to make the holidays land a little more gently—both for

 ourselves and the people we care about. One is bringing everyone together around the dinner table.

If you want to open your home to loved ones who are struggling this holiday season, 

our friends at The Dinner Party are here to help. They’re an organization focused on

turning what can be an isolating experience—like grief—into a source of 

meaningful connection, using the age-old practice of breaking bread. Here, they share

their recipe for planning an event where guests can let their guard down and openly share

whatever they’re feeling—without fear of ruining the mood or not being in the “holiday spirit.” 

For step by step guidelines on how to host...... go to

Visit this link to read more...

Also visit:

Living with Grief During the Holidays

Christmas... for some Sad becomes Sadder / Lonely becomes Lonelier

http://www.whatsyourgrief.com/first-holiday-worst-holiday/
Grief knows no timeline; it just shrinks in intensity.

Adrienne's Journal - 5 Years have passed...

"We move on in our own time, in our own ways. There is no cut-off date for grieving or feeling sad. There is no timetable for when to start dating. It’s all about doing what feels right and authentic to whoever you are."

Posted by Adrienne Gruberg 

Adrienne's Journal

It’s five years since Steve died. March 19, 2011 at 6:45p.m. But who’s counting? Even with five-plus years of anticipatory grieving, when the real thing comes along, you’re sideswiped.

Every year, at this time, I run the “last days of Steve” scenario in my head, over and over again. The three weeks leading to his death are still very much etched in my memory. The quick downward progression. The emergency room visits. The hospitalizations. No, the end was definitely not fun. It was an emotional roller coaster that still has me reeling to this day, which is why I’ve come to limit the days I revisit that time.

But, five years is definitely a milestone. I went from counting the days, to the weeks, to the months, to the years—it’s amazing that it’s come to that, since he’s so present in my thoughts and daily routine.

There is life after caregiving. I can attest to that. One month after he died, I went to open our summerhouse full of its memories—it was a great space to grieve, reminisce and heal. By the end of the season, I was ready to take on the mission of creating The Caregiver Space. As tinged with Steve, illness and melancholy as the task may have been, it was my way of reinventing myself and getting on with life. Something that began as a pipe-dream and a way of staying in touch with women who had been in my spousal care cancer support group, became instead a way of touching all caregivers in need of emotional support.

So, creating the website was my way out of the darkness and into the light—the website and Broadway theatre. I’ve never been one who had a problem doing things alone—restaurants, museums, movies and plays—and I hoped I’d begin to meet people doing things I like to do—to populate my new life with people who had common interests. Didn’t happen. But that was never the reason for going out. I relish cultural expeditions on my own. It was getting to be the time, however, for me to “fish or cut bait,” so to speak. I was, much to my surprise, ready to date.

Well, I had a few bites but nothing that intrigued me—so I started prospecting myself. It sort of felt like “Goldilocks”; this man was too short, that man lived too far away and eventually I found someone who was just right. Steve had let me know he wanted me to find someone to be with after he was gone—but he had his list of people I could not date. What’s really funny is that the first two people who were “suggested matches” for me in my daily notifications were on his list of candidates not to date. And I was going to respect his wishes.

My capacity for reading people paid off. I’ve been dating the first man I went out with—someone I found for myself—for almost two-and-a-half years. I DO know myself and have learned to set boundaries in my life. I’m not a kid anymore. I’ve learned to make my feelings known. After years of caregiving and what sometimes felt like bowing to my husband’s every whim, what “I” wanted was paramount; being direct, honest and caring has allowed me to be in a loving relationship where my limits and my person are respected.

In no way do I feel disloyal to Steve or his memory. My “boyfriend” (in quotes because it feels so silly saying girlfriend or boyfriend when we’re both over 65) lets me speak about my past. There are photos of Steve everywhere and that’s fine and how it should be.I was with Steve for over thirty-five years—he is still a big part of my life—and he still comes up in conversations with people who knew him. There’s no way I could be with someone who didn’t understand that.

Moving on doesn’t mean you have to leave your past behind you—sometimes I feel mine is like a friendly, cozy, favorite sweater I wear that keeps me safe and grounded. It’s made me who I am. Your past is part of who you are. It doesn’t go away. Carrying it around with you is unavoidable.

We move on in our own time, in our own ways. There is no cut-off date for grieving or feeling sad. There is no timetable for when to start dating. It’s all about doing what feels right and authentic to whoever you are. If you stay honest with yourself, you’ll know what to do when. It’s all about being an individual again vs. part of a unit. Find your new comfort zone—sometimes it’ll be just a little out of your old comfort zone. Be brave. Be happy.

Bloggers Note: I have joined the group http://thecaregiverspace.org/  I strongly endorse this resource for all providing caregiving to a loved one, a friend or as a professional.

Children Don’t Always Live

Children Don’t Always Live

By JAYSON GREENE OCT. 22, 2016

My daughter, Greta, was 2 years old when she died — or rather, when she was killed. A piece of masonry fell eight stories from an improperly maintained building and struck her in the head while she sat on a bench on the Upper West Side of Manhattan with her grandmother. No single agent set it on its path: It wasn’t knocked off scaffolding by the poorly placed heel of a construction worker, or fumbled from careless hands. Negligence, coupled with a series of bureaucratic failures, led it to simply sigh loose, a piece of impersonal calamity sent to rearrange the structure and meaning of our universe.

She was rushed to the hospital, where she underwent emergency brain surgery, but she never regained consciousness. She was declared brain-dead, and my wife and I donated her organs. She was our only child.

The incident was freakish enough to be newsworthy. Requests for interviews flooded our email while we still were at our daughter’s bedside; television trucks trawled Manhattan looking for us. When we left the hospital, I caught my daughter waving at me from the corner of my eye. A picture of her from my wife’s Facebook page was on the cover of The Daily News.

Over the next year, we became another local story about the quiddities of fate, the heartless absurdity of life in the big city. “Oh, you’re that couple,” a father said gravely when we introduced ourselves at a support group for bereaved parents. The attention was both bewildering and gratifying. We met couples whose children had died at home, in private, with only their shattered family to help them cope. There was succor to be drawn from all this awe and care, and I found myself leaning into it as often as I pushed it away.

Seven weeks ago, our second child was born; a son, Greta’s younger brother. They would have been exactly three and a half years apart. With his birth, I have become a father to a living child and a spirit — one child on this side of the curtain, and another whispering from beneath it. The confusion is constant, and in my moments of strength I succumb to it. I had a child die, and I chose to become a father again. There can be no greater definition of stupidity or bravery; insanity or clarity; hubris or grace.

Lying on the floor, talking to my son in soothing tones and jingling bright, interesting-looking things in front of his eyes, as I did with his sister, I yearn for him to feel his sister’s touch. Then I remember with a start: We were never going to have him. We always said Greta was enough — why have another kid? I gaze in awe. He wouldn’t exist if his sister had not died. I have two children. Where is the other one?

Becoming a parent is already a terrifying process. After a child’s violent death, the calculations are murkier. What does my trauma mean for this happy, uncomplicated being in my care? Will it affect the choices I make on his behalf? Am I going to give a smaller, more fearful world to him than I gave to Greta? Is he doomed to live under the shadow of what happened to his sister?

After Greta was born, my wife, Stacy, and I had a habit of checking to make sure she was still breathing. During that time, we ran into a fellow parent, a mother of two children, and Stacy made a nervous joke about it. The woman smiled. “They’re always breathing,” she said.

I imagine it’s the same for all parents. You begin to adjust to the reality of your child’s continuing existence. Their future begins to take shape in your mind. They’re always breathing, you tell yourself.

Life remains precarious, full of illnesses that swoop in and level the whole family like a field of salted crops; there are beds to tumble from, chairs to run into, chemicals and small chokeable toys to mind. But you do not see death at every corner, merely challenges. The part of you that used to keep calculating the odds of your child’s existence has mostly fallen dormant. It is no longer useful to you; it was neveruseful to the child; and there is so much in front of you to do.

At 2, your child is a person — she has opinions and fixed beliefs, preferences and tendencies, a group of friends and favorite foods.

What happens when that child is swiftly killed by a runaway piece of everyday environment, at the exact moment you had given up thinking that something could take all of this away from you?

When I am on the playground years from now, watching my son take a fall from the monkey bars, I might not panic. But some part of me will remember: A heartbeat can stop.Hearing a heartbeat for the first time during the ultrasound, and then watching doctors shine light on unresponsive pupils two years later, you stop thinking of a heartbeat as a constant, and more as a favorable weather condition. Now I am a reminder of the most unwelcome message in human history. Children — yours, mine — they don’t necessarily live.

When I realized Greta would not live, I wanted to die so purely, and so simply. I could feel my heart gazing up at me quizzically, asking me in between beats: “Are you sure you want me to keep doing this?” But I found I could not give the order.

Since my son was born, I’ve caught myself making concrete plans for my suicide if he were to die. I will draft a letter to my parents, or even tell them face-to-face. “I’m going to meet my children,” I will say. If the world takes this one, I am not meant to be here. It is a frightening thought because it is so logical. How would anyone argue me out of it? Who would even try?

I do not believe anything bad will happen to him in his infancy. It makes a sort of sense: Nothing bad happened to Greta as an infant. I do not wake up in the middle of the night to check on him. I do not even flinch when I hand him to others and watch them grapple awkwardly with his floppy neck.

However, some part of me is grimly certain he will die at 2. The evidence is all on my side: 100 percent of my children have suffered this fate. Even as I carry my baby into the world — this crowded, clamorous, septic world — I am holding a breath that I will not release until he turns precisely one day older than Greta.

During my son’s birth, I leaned into the crook of my wife’s neck while she pushed, just as I did when Greta was born. I closed my eyes and smelled the gauze from her deathbed. My boy came out sickly white, with the umbilical cord knotted around his neck, and he was silent for an eternal second before his gurgling cry bubbled through his lungs and my wife clutched him and wept. “This is a miracle baby, I hope you understand that,” said our midwife. She was the same woman who had caught Greta and handed her to her mother; Greta had promptly let loose a tarry slick of meconium all over Stacy’s belly and wailed, her feet swiping feebly in it like a bird in an oil spill.

Children, hospitals, blood: It’s all a confused swirl of joy and agony. Somewhere in my subconscious, my daughter is on a scale, her birth weight being calculated; in the same moment, she is blue and cold and being carted away. All I am is a spectator: Her body is not mine to protect, not mine to save.

My wife and I are young still. With our son’s birth, we have committed to another round here on earth. My son will always have a dead sister; when I am 50, my heart will ache in this exact same way it does today. Children remain dead in ways adults do not, and on bad mornings, in the wrong light, everything from here on out feels like ashes.

Thankfully, I see it that way only in the margins. A breezy day, a good drink, my wife laughing, holding my son’s head to my chest — these things help dispel it. I look at my boy, a beautiful already-fattening baby, and this world, the one that senselessly killed my daughter, is benevolent once more.

I talk to him about his sister, whom I think he met before arriving. “Your daddy will always be sad your sister’s not here,” I tell him. “But you fill Daddy’s heart up with joy and he loves you more than everything.” I also want to say, but do not: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’ll never be the same father I was before. I’m sorry that you will live with me, to some degree, in grief.

But life is good: Greta loved it. She found every second of it delightful, and at its best when appreciated with others. I think of her hand touching my cheek and I muster up every drop of bravery I can: “It is a beautiful world,” I tell him, willing myself to believe it. We are here to share it.

Jayson Greene (@Jayson_Greene)

Bloggers Note: Thank you to Jayson for his courage to honour his daughter with their story. 

My Grief..... My Table

Grief Changes Relationships

Legacy Activities for families

Legacy activities are a meaningful way for families to
share moments together when someone in the family
is with an advanced illness.

• Create a scrapbook with pictures/keepsakes related to a time in their life

• Create a photo album of favourite photos with accompanying captions

• Compile a binder of favourite recipes

• Compile a collection of favourite songs or hymns

• Create a quilt made out of favorite T-shirts or other fabric items

• Hand-prints of you and/or your loved ones in plaster or on paper

• Write cards for a future birthday, holiday or special occasion

• Write a poem or a song created specifically for your loved one(s)

• Plant a tree

• Book of ME – write a letter/story to your family that shares your values, 

         beliefs,  accomplishments, life lessons, etc.

Adapted from

Hospice of Waterloo Region

Newsletter

http://www.hospicewaterloo.ca/resources/legacy-activities/

Who I was is gone.... WHO AM I NOW?

(Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them. They grow up and move on. Move away and start their family. The life their parents knew was defined with children at home. Now empty nesters  the parents create a new role as parents and a couple; a new definition of who they are. A different role that is a mixture of sadness for what is no more and questions about what is to be.)  

“The grief process is not only about mourning the loss, but getting to know yourself as a different person”.

The same redefinition of “who am I now?” occurs in grief.

“You lose yourself, your identity, meaning, purpose, values, your trust”.

• After years of devoting all your spare time as a care-giver to a loved one, “now what do I do,who am I now? ”
• As a parent, “now who am I?” What do I say when people ask “Do you have any children?”
• A life long friend dies and you feel lost, not knowing anyone you trust as much to share your deepest secrets with.
• If a brother / sister dies, you ask; “Am I still a brother / sister?”
• When a grandparent dies you might feel your family history goes with them. Children's first experience with human death is often when this happens.

There is a need to redefine who you are.

Not for others, but for yourself.

A new definition of “WHO AM I NOW?”

Here are five suggestions on how to try and redefine who you might become.... (the essence of you).

NO NEED TO RUSH: First you need to give yourself time to grieve. Seek out local Grief Groups or Community Grief Counselling. You will know when you are ready to give consideration to these suggestions. 

HOBBIES
Have you ever wanted to try a hobby but never had the time? (Scrap-booking, painting, singing, story teller, photography) Find a friend with a similar interest and join a group together.

VOLUNTEERING is an excellent way to meet new people. Cook for people who live alone; be a hospital friendly visitor; join a community committee planing special events.... give back and feel good for having assisted others in some way.

ADULT EDUCATION
Sign up for a general interest course or to get a certificate or degree.

TRAVEL is an option as well. Visit family who live far away from you. Friends you have not seen for a long time.

FAITH BASED ACTIVITIES
Join a church or if you already belong, see which groups meet, when and what they do.

There are resources in most communities, a quick note to myself and I will do some homework, sending you the information. You can also seek out your local volunteer bureau for a list of organizations.

The hardest step in regaining the sense of control is to ask for assistance. 

This is not a weakness, it is a strength.

Will my loved one communicate with me?

Studies have found 60+ percent of people who have had a loved one die (parent, spouse, child, or sibling) have felt their presence one or more times after their death. Some soon after and for a short period of time, while others said the experiences lasted on and off for several years.

40+ percent said they heard their loved one talking to them or singing their favorite song.

All bereaved replying said they found great comfort in these events, as it reinforced that their loved one was at peace and the spirit or essence of the person was still alive.

After the death of a loved one there are many different beliefs about how a deceased communicates with you to say..... 

"I am here with you and I'm O.K.". 

A cardinal is a representative of a loved one who has passed. When you see one, it means a loved one is visiting you. They have also been known to make an appearance during times of celebration or sadness.. 

Seeing a butterfly fluttering around you when normally there are none.
This ls your loved one saying "HELLO!"

Finding "Dimes" or "Quarters" around your house where they should not be  and their presence cannot  be explained. 

Strange light or shadow in the night, a picture frame moved, or an item falling off a flat surface. All have been reported by people after their loved one died.

Dreams are the biggest reported means of communication with a loved one. They interact by sharing stories, asking for guidance, or talking about a special event that has or will soon happen.

What ever you choose to believe please remember, the one who is grieving finds comfort in these happenings, it helps them travel their journey in a more peaceful way. They don't need "naysayers"...   they need someone to listen and acknowledge that these events have happened.  NOT to everyone who has lost a loved one, but some.

I

NOTES:

There are resources in most communities, you can also seek out your local volunteer bureau for a list of organizations that can assist you.

My Grief Journey….. How Do I know I am moving forward?

My Grief Journey…..

How Do I know I am moving forward?

As you travel on a grief journey it is often difficult to know (or believe) you are moving forward. 

There is no magic Grief Measuring Tape, no timeline to follow or a special day when you wake up and say “I've arrived, the journey is over!”.

For some the journey never starts; others say it was after the third month that it really got tough; and for others they share how the second year of their loss was the hardest.

Since the grief journey knows no order you will have moments or days when you feel and believe nothing has changed. You are still at the beginning of the journey.  A song, a smell, a gathering or a special anniversary / celebration can hit you without warning in the most difficult situations. This is normal, you are not going crazy; you are not weak…. 

IT IS NORMAL; YOU ARE NORMAL!

To travel back to where you were before grief showed up uninvited will not take as long. You move back to your last step quickly and keep moving on from there.

With small steps, living each day as best you can, the time will come when you will be able to turn around and see that "yes, I have traveled along the grief journey, I am still on it, but I have moved forward."

Here are some signs to look for that say "you are progressing":

• You don’t cry, choke or feel weak at the mention of your loved one’s name.
• Tears don’t always appear when you think of your loved one, or see their picture.
• Memories more often bring comfort or a smile, not pain and tears.
• You make plans with others or on your own knowing they don’t include your loved one any more.
• You realize your life has changed. You are someone different than when your loved one was with you; and you are O.K. with that.
• You realize and accept that you are still living, although your love one is not.
• The cause of death isn’t the emphasis anymore.
• You know in your heart that even though your loved one died, the love between you can never be destroyed. It will live on forever as will your memories of them.
• When your love for them is what you remember most.
• You wonder how your loved one would have handled it if you had died first… and smile.

There are no rules to a grief journey. Each of us starts as a result of the death of a loved one…. There the similarities end. Our paths may cross at times (but this is not a spectator sport) and we must (each of us) give grief the time and energy it requires so we can move on and live. 

NOTES:

There are resources in most communities, you can also seek out your local volunteer bureau for a list of organizations that can assist you.