Difficult Seasons

Saturday would have been my brother’s 61st birthday.  April 4 will always be Billie’s birthday to me, although he’s been gone for 11 years.  (If you’re curious, he’s the one of us with a Wikipedia entry .)

This is one of the years when, while aware of April 4th coming around, I haven’t said anything about it out loud or even given more that a few moments to considering it until sitting down to write this post.  Part of it was that last week was busy.  Part of it was that I just didn’t have the energy to go there.

When I spend time thinking about Billie, it takes a lot of energy.  There are lots of good times, lots of accomplishments, lots of affection to remember.  But there are also the things I wish could have been different, the parts that are tragic.

Or maybe I’m only trying to avoid the pain of looking back.

I really only bring this experience up to give you an idea to think about.

Sometimes we just don’t have the energy to process loss on a given day or a particular week or maybe year.  We can be aware.  We can have some thoughts about it.  But can we give ourselves permission not to talk about it or to spend time remembering?

What’s your experience with this in your life?

tw3nty3ight's Twitter Post

When you share life with folks through social media, you’ll find stories that grab your heart.

tw3nty3ight (Billy Fairchild’s Twitter handle) has been on a journey few of us can even imagine.  His young son suffered respiratory failure and died recently.  You can read more of the story on his blog.

Rather than tell you the story of the wonderful support his virtual community has provided (you can read that for yourself in his blog or Twitter stream), I want to focus on the statement in this particular post shown in the photo.  It has so much to say about where we find ourselves in the early stages of grief.

In the early days, when you try to look ahead, you see nothing but darkness.  You can’t even see the light at the end of the tunnel, the promise that some day, you’ll emerge from the darkness.  So fear of the future is a normal reaction.

In the early days, looking back brings intense pain, pain to be avoided.

So your comfort comes not from looking behind or ahead, but from looking beside you, at those that are sojourning with you, and at the One whose presence carries you through each day, one at a time.

Thanks to Billy for sharing his grief walk, and allowing us to sojourn with him.

Tweet from Mary DeMuth

Sometimes you see a phrase, and it sticks in your mind.  And replays again and again.

“I feel full and empty all at once.”

Earlier Mary DeMuth had written on Twitter a post that explains this one.  She had finished her latest book, but at about the same time, her stepdad’s wife died.  Full, and empty.

Because I’d read the first tweet,  I understood the second.  And it started me thinking about times I’ve felt the plurality of emotions.

The ones I thought of were a little different.   So happy that my Granny Hughes was no longer trapped in her body devastated by Lou Gehrig’s disease, so sad because this once vibrant woman was gone.  So happy that my mom was in a new body, not one which had quit functioning because of liver cancer, but sad that she wasn’t here to talk to, to share life with.  And I’ve got more examples.

It’s fascinating that our hearts can hold such polar emotions together at the same time.

What can you add to the conversation that Mary started in my mind?  I bet you have some examples from your own life, times when you’ve felt full and empty all at once.

And you’ll also want to check out Mary DeMuth’s website as well!

A month ago, Mom and Dad would have celebrated their 66th wedding anniversary.  A few weeks ago was the sixth anniversary of my Mom’s death.  And earlier this week would have been her 84th birthday.  I’ve been observing the voluntary and involuntary grief emotions of my dad (and feeling them myself).

So Tuesday we spent a few hours together specifically for the purpose of remembering that another set of these anniversaries have passed.  Our agenda was to have lunch together, go buy some new silk flowers for the grave site, and then visit Mom’s grave.

We met for lunch.  Dad picked a place that he and I have eaten at frequently, a place we both enjoy.  We talked about family, and I showed him pictures of Madi and some I took when Ben first met Madi.  It helped to talk about new life even as we remembered that Mom was no longer with us.

Then we headed to a local store to buy silk flowers.  I suggested that we might see if they had bluebonnets and talked about how much she liked them.  Dad remarked that she sure liked to paint them.  As we looked, he decided that he would rather have roses, red roses.  So we searched until we found the perfect bunch.

As we drove out to Rosenberg to the cemetary, we talked about how much the area has changed over the last few years.  Thinking back on it, maybe it was symbolic of the change Dad has experienced the last few years.

At the cemetary, we walked over to the grave marker, and I helped Dad put the flowers in the brass vase.  Dad was happy with his flower choice, and thought they were just right.  As we looked at the dates on the marker, Dad opened his billfold (where he keeps all of his important information) and read some of the other dates about their life together.  Then he pulled his favorite picture of Mom out and we looked at it together, as he pointed out her smile.  We then told each other how much we missed her.  And he talked about how glad he was that we had made the visit.

Then we got back in the car and drove back to his apartment.

It was important to both of us that we shared this experience.  It was important that we said out loud to each other that we missed her.  And it was important that we acknowledged the clustered anniversaries that make this an emotional season.

How do you handle these anniversaries?

Special Dates

Our minds and hearts are built to remember anniversaries of important dates to those we’ve lost.  In fact if our conscious self doesn’t remember, our subconscious will do it for us, and poke at us in various ways until it becomes conscious.

A member of the caregiver support group I lead on Sunday mornings told us that her mother has a great way of handling those few days each year.

Instead of letting anniversary days sneak up on her and then spending the day feeling down, she does several intentional things.

1. She marks the dates clearly on her calendar in advance.
2. She dedicates those days to serving the needs of someone else.

She makes her plans in advance, and finalizes her preparations early.

Then on the anniversary day, she goes and spends the day with one of her friends who is shut in, or who is lonely.  She takes snacks, or even a light lunch for them to share.  She honors the memory of her loved one through intentional service.

She’s not alone on these potentially difficult days, and she’s found a way to get outside herself.

What an amazing woman!  And what a wonderful idea.

How can you build on this idea?  How can you use it to help your loved ones deal with their special days.