Saints and Grief

 When I was writing my book on Saints and Suffering last year, I didn't include a chapter on Grief. There were several reasons for that, but probably the main one was that I didn't realize just how much suffering there is involved in the grief process.  Now that I've been griefwalking throught my loss, I think I'd like to investigate how the saints dealt with and handled their grief. 

The one place I do talk about grief is in the chapter on St. Jane de Chantal.  In it, I wrote:

St. Jane de Chantal had more than her share (of suffering)

It began when her beloved husband, the Baron de Chantal, died from an accidental gunshot wound, leaving her a widow with three small children. Jane was inconsolable and despondent, falling into a deep, grief-fueled depression for at least four months. For various reasons, including protecting her children’s estate, Jane was forced to live with her father-in-law, a difficult and tyrannical man who made her life miserable. For seven long years, she lived in virtual servitude until finally, as her biographers say, her patience and virtue triumphed.

Yesterday I talked about how our culture expects us to be over and done with grief in a matter of days (preferably hours if not minutes), but that grief doesn't work that way.  I find it surprisingly comforting to realize that a saint was "inconsolable and despondent," even deeply depressed, after a death.

Because we are so loathe to let grief has its time, the depression that falls like a soggy wet tarp on life isn't something we are comfortable discussing.  "Get something to help!" is the well-meaning advice of friends.  What they really are saying is "Your depression is making me uncomfortable, so take something so that you act happier and that way I won't have to feel so uneasy when you burst into tears over a cup of tea."

Taking a drug to mask the feelings only means that the feelings are submerged, and submersion isn't the same as healing. Healing is a process...a process that takes time. If it took St. Jane four months to begin to come out of her grief depression and she was a saint, then it's okay for me (and for you) to take the time we need to experience our walk through the valley of the shadow of death.

Moving On...or Grief is SO 12 Seconds Ago

Our society is very instant-oriented.  Movie stars separate and the tabloids have them "moving on" to their next relationship before the indentation from the wedding ring has time to disappear. The commerical for ATT&T captures it perfectly. "That is so 12 seconds ago!"

Grief, however, still responds to older, deeper rhythms. Rhythms that can't be forced into our Insta-Over-It mentality.  The stages of grief have to be processed in their own time, and that processing simply takes time.

For me, with my Mother, several of the stages were accomplished on the long journey.  I didn't deny her passing or bargain with God about it.  I was ready for the stage of sorrow and gradual acceptance before I got the actual phone call.

As I sit here on a Sunday afternoon, feeling sort of out touch and out of reality, I know that the grief I'm feeling comes from two sources.  First, the great sweeping waves that come when I think about Mother.  I surf them, feeling them rise and fall beneath my heart, taking my breath away as they crescendo.  

Then, there are other waves; short, harsh, choppy waves like the sea in a storm, pounding and battering against the shore of my being. These waves of grief come from the whole situation swirling around the friend who was arrested for a white collar crime.  (Since it isn't my story and since we are still innocent until proven guilty in this country, I choose not to disclose anything more about it here.) These waves of grief are on an entirely different schedule than those surround Mother.  They answer to the names of denial, bargaining, anger and fear.

When I am between waves, I think, "How odd to be caught in two different grief cycles at the same time."  Then a wave comes, be it sweeping or short, and I feel the ancient rhythms of pain take over.  There is no way out but through.

God grant that I have the strength to make it through two cycles simultaneously.

Let It Be

It's a bit surprising to me that I have been getting up, going to a new part-time job, working on my regular writing and editing, feeding the cats, feeding me and even, once in awhile, sweeping the floor, all on a sort of autopilot. It's only in the middle of the night, when there is nothing conscious to block the subconscious that the feelings of fear and pain surge.  I wake up every couple of hours, heart racing, mind whirling, fear-filled and sorrow-drenched.

Grief is a night stalker.

As I remind myself to breath, I am acutely aware that Mother died three weeks ago today. I received a check in the mail for the deposit we put down several years ago on her room in the assisted living/nursing home where she lived and died. It was a breathing-sucking moment to see her name on the check.  I laid it on the seat of the car as I drove into the driveway from the mailbox and it's still there.  I probably should go out and get it, but I think it can wait until morning.

I've never exactly believed that hard things come in threes, but they do seem to cluster in our lives.  Perhaps the good things cluster too, but we just don't pay as much attention to the good as the hard, sad, difficult things.  However, these past three weeks seem to have been a knotted cluster of pain.  There is, of course, Mother's death and all the commensurate pain that surrounds the loss of the woman who was the most significant and influential person in my life.  Added to it is my sorrow, confusion and pain over a good friend who was arrested in connection with a white collar crime. Not to mention the feelings that came with being interviewed by the police. No matter that I know nothing, it's still a bit disconcerting to have a police detective arrive on your doorstep. And then there is the heartache for a friend whose mother had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.  Having just walked through several months of hospice, I felt my heart being pulled the pit of my stomach at that news.

This afternoon, despite the fact I had more to do than time to do it in, two friends asked me to join them for a cup of coffee at the Washburne Cafe.  After driving by it three times (It's that autopilot thing again.), I finally found a parking place and feeling like my inner and outer being was in shambles, I met them.  I could barely tell you where I was, but they steered me to a table, gave me something to drink and began to comfort me.  We talked and laughed and prayed.  They lifted me up and reminded me that all things have a season and nothing lasts forever---good or bad.

"It's been a long season," I thought, remembering back a year ago when Mother broke her legs and the long long road that finally led home. I didn't want them to know, but surges of panic were rising again as I thought about how to manage her last affairs, pay her taxes, and try to find a way to now take care of me and my own needs.

Just then I noticed that there was a song in background.  I hadn't heard any music playing the whole time we were talking, but suddenly I heard the words, "Let it be."  The Beatles song was coming from somewhere.  I stopped and listened:

And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me
Shine until tomorrow, let it be
I wake up to the sound of music, Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
There will be no sorrow, let it be
Let it be, let it be, let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

Let it be.
Let it be.

I truly believe that God was sending me a message at that moment.

Let it be. Let it all be just as it is.

There will be no sorrow. Let it be.

Praying for Summer

If some King of the earth have so large an extent of Dominion, in North, and South, as that he hath Winter and Summer together in his Dominions, 

so large an extent East and West, as that he hath day and night together in his Dominions, much more hath God mercy and judgement together: He brought light out of darknesse, not out of a lesser light; he can bring thy Summer out of Winter, though thou have no Spring; though in the wayes of fortune, or understanding, or conscience, thou have been benighted till now, wintred and frozen, clouded and eclypsed, damped and benummed, smothered and stupefied till now, now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the Sun at noon to illustrate all shadowes, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries, all occasions invite his mercies, and all times are his seasons—John Donne

Small Surprises

I've been an orphan for two weeks now.  I realize that's an odd way to express it, especially at my age, that is the reality. Two weeks ago, at 4:14 am, the world as I knew it altered forever.

These past two weeks have been filled with a lot of sadness, but also some small surprises. Maybe, because there is so much heaviness in my life right now, I am savoring the small bits all that much more.

Like last night.  I was having a massive craving for chocolate, but there wasn't anything in the house and I up to going out.  On a whim I opened the cookie jar, which never contains cookies and LO!!!  There were four, count them, four OREOS!!  I don't know exactly how long they'd been there, but they tasted just fine as I snorfed them down.

Just a small surprise in the midst of dark days.


(And while I'm talking about dark days, I have a friend who is experiencing some huge issues with his business and another whose mother has just been diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer.  So to those who find and read this blog, a few prayers, good thoughts and positive energy sent their way would be most welcome.)

Floating Rib

Did you know that your 11th and 12th ribs can "float" up under your 10th causing a great deal of pain that can mimic a heart attack or gall bladder?

Well, neither did I.  But now I do.  I was fairly sure I wasn't having a heart attack when I went to the doctor, but I was thinking of dire things like liver cancer, gall bladder etc.  But apparently it's "just" a rib floating out of place.

I have a great many things floating through my mind right now and apparently my rib wanted to get in on the action. 

And so I leave you with this passage from my upcoming book on suffering, Facing Adversity with Grace:

When you are able to see your suffering in the light of life’s greater purpose, your suffering becomes redemptive rather than destructive. As long as you believe your suffering is without merit, it will do nothing for your spiritual growth. It is only when you realize that physical suffering can become a means to holiness that it can be transformed from mere pain into peaceful acceptance....

, in the words of the great poet Kahil Gibran, “Your pain… is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility. For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen.”

A Full Moon

I have a small meditation chapel in my house.  It doesn't have any light other than a skylight and candles (I'll take a picture in the day and post it later) so the night is clear and close.  Last night I stood outside the door, which has a temple bell hanging before it, thinking about all the changes that have suddenly been thrust upon me.

My mother's death certainly tops the list.  But just a few days before she died, I took a temporary job at a debt collection company to help both with some of the finances and to get my focus off caregiving for a little while.  Little did I know that the job would be taking my mind off grief for a few hours each day since I started on Monday, the one week anniversary of the funeral.

I'm not quite sure why I found and took this job...or perhaps was lead and given it.  It certainly isn't anything I've ever done or aspired to do.  However, I firmly believe, even when I am in the midst of doubting everything including my sanity and the presence of God, that all things happen in our lives for a reason.  That everything comes with a lesson attached.  Sometimes the lesson is learned in joy, sometimes in sorrow.  Sometimes in difficulty, sometimes in ease.

Lately my lessons seem to be learned more in sorrow and difficulty than in ease.  Perhaps that's because I don't pay sufficient attention to the lessons of joy and ease.  Or perhaps it is because I am sending out signals that indicate I want to learn the hard way.  After all, it says in Job that "What I always feared has happened to me. What I dreaded has come true."  It does seem that what we focus on comes to pass and certainly this past year my focus has been on hard things.

As I enter the meditation chapel on my way to bed, I look up through the skylight and see the full moon overhead, a silver bowl in a star-spangled sky.  I can see why the ancients thought the moon was a goddess, draping her soft shimmering light over the land, transforming the harshness into gentle shadow and flowing shape.

Perhaps, starting now, I can begin to learn some lessons from a place of joy, instead of pain. 

It's the prayer I send to heaven on a moonbeam during this full moon.

One More Day

Today is the one week anniversary of my mother's funeral.  I had great plans to do many things yesterday. But the best laid plans went aglee as Robert Burns wrote and instead I just took the the time to breathe my way into the night. 

I am shocked at how grief creeps in on strange little paws.  Like yesterday.  It was the first Sunday in 12 years that I haven't visited Mother (unless I was out of town or ill) and the void is palpable.  Even going to a friend's and watching the Superbowl didn't fully shift the feelings, although it did help.

I know that the only way out is through.

But a hot bath didn't hurt.

Measuring a Year

Because I am an only child, my mother's death is a solitary event for me. There are no siblings to share memories with and while my son remembers his grandmother, she was one generation removed and therefore his grief is, understandably, different. I still have two aunts who live in another town, but they, too, are experiencing the death on a different level--that of their sister.

A week ago, I was preparing for a funeral, making a plenitude of decisions and careening into tears at the flicker of a memory.  Today I haven't cried...yet...although the pervasive sense of unreality, of griefwalking continues. 

A year ago my mother fell and broke both legs. At the time she was expected to die, but she didn't and her last year gave me a chance to create some closure, work out some issues and prepare myself, as best as we can, for the final departure.

So what is echoing in my heart right now is this song from Rent (which isn't my favorite musical by a long shot!)--How do you measure a year?

Griefwalking

My mother died a week ago today and I've been living in what I can only describe as GriefTime. The hours have taken on a peculiar fluidity which sometimes feels like it has been forever ago and at other moments seems like it just happened.  Long past memory blends and blurs with current time and recent events to form a sort of hazy melange in my mental subduction zone. I griefwalk through the motions of the day, sometimes feeling very focused and then, at other times, realizing I've put the coffee cup in the refrigerator and the cream in the dishwasher.

It's a time like no other that I've experienced, even though I have experienced death before.  I think it is because my life and my mother's were deeply enmeshed, by her deliberate choice and intent from the moment of my birth. For her, the boundaries between mother and daughter were a permeable membrane and having grown up with that as my default normal, I never truly understood the extent to which the threads of her life were woven through every aspect of my life, forming an integral part of the design of my existence. For most of her life, until dementia began to confuse her, I knew what she wanted, without her having to articulate it and would simply provide it for her.  When, late in her life, I sometimes failed to anticipate and provide, she would say in frustration, "You always used to know what I wanted!!!" And I did.

For my entire life, I was Eileene's daughter, first and foremost.  Even when I was a wife and a mother myself, I was always Eileene's daughter first.  Now her death is forcing me to reidentify myself.  While I will never cease to be her daughter, it is no longer the first and most prominent of identifiers. I do not really know who I am anymore. Her death striped me of the one identity that I have carried since the day I was born.  I am having to ask the question, "Who am I?"

I believe that I will find the answer, but for now all I can see and feel is the hole where the identity once was.

Oddly, the hardest thing so far has been going online and realizing that I can use the money in her account that I always so carefully preserved for her bills for myself if I choose. I was always excruciatingly careful to keep her funds separate from mine, even  when I was in need and to think now that that what is there, even if it isn't a lot, is mine to use is disturbing in ways I never anticipated or even considered. It somehow feels like I'm doing something wrong, even when the use is for her last bills and expenses. The sense of duty, of doing the right thing by my mother, is deep within the marrow of my soul.  I suspect it will take some time before I understand on a soul-level that I did the right thing until the very end and now there is a new right thing to be done.


The other thing that I am noticing is that the emotional elements of grief are being superseded by genuine physical pain. This part of grief hurts, not just intellectually or emotionally, but deep within my chest cavity, within my bones and tendons and muscles. 

Mourning is hard work, physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually.


So I griefwalk, reminding myself that "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..." This is my time to weep and mourn, but I have to believe that there will come again a time to laugh and dance.

A Life and a Death

My Mother died last Friday at age 92.  Even though the death was expected, since she was in hospice, it still has come as a shock.  I am now an orphan, the last bastion before death for my own son.  I am still processing my feelings and the change that this has created.

Eternal Rest Grant Unto Her, O Lord.