Pat Bertram's Blog, page 295

Following Grief Wherever It Leads

A couple of weeks ago at my grief group, I mentioned that the day I cleaned out my life mate's effects — his clothes, personal items, and mementoes — was the worst day of my life. I then said the only good thing about it was that since it was the worst day of my life, by definition, every day afterward would be better. The moderator of the group gave me a surprised look and said, "That's a very positive thing coming from you." Huh? I didn't know we were supposed to be positive. I thought the whole purpose of dealing with grief, of talking about it, of learning from it was to feel it, process it, and let it go so that we'd eventually be able to rebuild our shattered lives. Being foolishly positive seems to be a rather negative way to deal with a soul-shattering loss.

After the first painful weeks, most bereft are outwardly optimistic when it comes to sharing their grief because they've been taught that dwelling on anything unpleasant is unhealthy. They talk about looking forward to new opportunities, new goals, new hopes, but inwardly they are still reeling from their horrendous loss. (And if they aren't, chances are they are denying what their loss means to them.) I chose instead to feel my grief, to dissect it, to put it into words for the bereft who couldn't express what they were feeling. I also wanted to illuminate the experience for those who haven't a clue what grief really feels like (especially novelists, who so often get it wrong), and to challenge the current myths about grief. If I wanted to, I could have been as optimistic as everyone else, but that was not my self-imposed mission. I don't need to shore myself up with positive thinking — I'm strong enough to take grief straight. This does not mean I am closing myself off to new possibilities. Eventually I will have to rebuild my life, but I am in a position right now where I can follow grief wherever it leads.

And where it is leading is into the second year of living without my mate.

The first year of grief is all about dealing with the emotional, physical, mental, spiritual shock of the soul quake you experience when a long-time mate dies. That shock protects most of us from feeling the full effect of the truth — that we'll never see our mates on earth again. After the first year, when we begin to rebuild our lives, to feel that the worst is over, we are hit with the aftershocks, and it's as if we are experiencing the loss all over again, but this time without the protective effects of the original shock. If we've worked through our particular issues — our shoulda, woulda, coulda's — we are left with pure heartbreak.

Our family and friends (the few who stuck with us) have moved past the loss and they expect us to move on, too. One of my blog readers, a professional consultant in emotional-mental health who has been supportive of my efforts to demystify grief, wrote, "At this time of the journey, (the second year) people are at such risk of going into severe depression, of jumping into relationships they usually wouldn't enter etc because everyone expects they'll be 'moving on,' 'creating a new life,' when in fact the shock is only now subsiding (the emotional shock of losing the loved one is so under appreciated and I believe lasts for at least twelve months)." She hopes I will continue to share my journey, because "the next eight to twelve months will be just as important for folks to read. It seems to me the second year is about another level of acceptance . . .about the recreation of life whilst initially hating that it has to be recreated at all . . . about choosing life and the potential for happiness when death has taken our loved one . . . about choosing to find different lights to shed meaning on our existence."

She makes good points, and I wouldn't mind continuing to chronicle my journey into grief (despite the fact that I've alienated most of my blog readers). The problem is, I have nothing to say. Or at least, not much. For the most part, my situation isn't changing. I'm caring for my 94-year-old father (or, to be more accurate, I'm staying with him so that he can keep his independence as long as possible), so I'm not doing much except taking a few isolated trips in an effort to fill the hole my mate left behind. It won't be until after my father goes (and I could be 94 myself by that time!) that I will be able to start the rebuilding process, try to find a new life, a new place, a new reason for living. I'm still in a holding pattern. Obviously, I'm not totally stagnating, but I'm not moving on in any significant way, and I can't because of my living situation. I'm not even having any revelations as I walk in the desert. (Of course, the heat could be baking my brain, burning off any thoughts before they form.)

I have no hopes at the moment, but I am not despairing, not weighted with hopelessness. I'm merely waiting for what life throws at me next. Perhaps this waiting is another stage of grief, a hiatus before the real healing begins, and if so, I'll be ready. Dealing with grief as it comes, without the frill of foolish optimism, has taught me that I can handle anything. (Well, anything but torture, but I have no interest in being a martyr for any cause, so I should be okay.)

Tagged: death, foolish optimism, grief, loss, negative thinking, optimism, pessimism, positive thinking, second year of grief, surviving grief

A Search for Meaninglessness

The death of my life mate — my soul mate — has posed such a conundrum for me that for the past sixteen months I've been questioning the meaning of my life. Life didn't seem meaningless when he and I were together. I never felt as if I were wasting time no matter what we did — even something trivial like playing a game or watching a movie — so why do I feel I'm wasting time if I do those things alone? Don't I have just as much worth now that I'm alone as I did when I was with him? Of course I do. It's the things themselves that feel a waste. I feel as if I should be doing something significant. Something that has meaning. The problem is that very little seems meaningful. So much of life consists of basic survival tasks such as eating, sleeping, chores, paying bills, which are essentially meaningless (or meaninglessly essential). Even more meaningless are the things we do to kill time, such as playing computer solitaire, watching television, or writing blog posts.

When I was out walking in the desert recently, I had a revelation of sorts. I decided that if my life mate still exists somewhere, if he still has being, if life doesn't end with death, then life has an inherent meaning — whatever we do or think or feel, no matter how trivial, has meaning because it adds to the Eternal Everything. If death brings nothing but oblivion, then there is no intrinsic meaning to life. So a search for meaning is meaningless (except on a practical level. We all need to feel we are doing something meaningful so we can get through our days and even thrive). Life either has meaning or it doesn't. Meaning isn't something to find but to be. So, I'm going to search for meaninglessness, or at least accept it.

Such thoughts seem as meaningless and as trivial as the rest of life. They get me knowhere. (I'm leaving that typo, because . . . wow! So perfect!) But I need to find the bedrock of life, a foundation on which to rebuild my life, and an meaninglessness seems as good a place to start as any.

Tagged: death, life and death, meaning, meaning of life, meaninglessness, wasting time

The Silent Language of Grief

The so-called five stages of grief are so ingrained that most people think that's all there is to grief. You deny, you get angry, you feel pain and guilt (and sometimes you bargain for the return of your loved one), you feel depressed, and finally, you accept. Sounds nice, doesn't it? A brief checklist of stages, and then you get on with your life.

But grief is not that simple. First, those stages were described by Kübler-Ross to show how people come to terms with their own death and perhaps that of a loved one. It bears little resemblance to how people grieve after the death of a long time mate. Sure, we bereft have moments of anger, times of depression, some feelings of guilt, but most of us undergo a completely different set of stages, such as shock, bewilderment, hopelessness, loss of identity, anxiety, panic, isolation, loneliness, yearning. (For most of us, not anger or guilt but a vast yearning to see our mates once more drives our grief.) We also have physical changes to cope with that aren't addressed in the Kübler-Ross model, such as immune system deficiencies, stress, dizziness, nausea, changes in brain chemistry, hormone disturbances, loss of equilibrium, and a higher death rate from all causes than non-grievers.

Still, whatever stages of grief a person goes through, there does come a time when you accept the truth deep in the marrow of your being — he is gone forever. You think this acceptance signifies the end of your grief, but do you want to know what often lies on the other side of acceptance? Heartbreak and tears. Sure, there are times of peace as you become used to your aloneness, but acceptance feels like another death, and it needs to be grieved. (It's one thing to know he's never coming back, and another thing to KNOW it. This acceptance is why the second year of grieving is often worse than the first year.)

Grief is a way of processing information. We know our loved one is absent, but is it possible to comprehend how very gone he is? To understand the nature and finality of death? Perhaps not, but by feeling the pain of separation and releasing it through tears, we can come to accept (however unwillingly) the idea that our loved one is gone from this earth.

It's been sixty-nine weeks since my life mate — my soul mate — died of inoperable kidney cancer, and I still have bouts of tears. I was always a stoic and believed in facing reality, but this is one reality I cannot comprehend. I try to conjure him up in my mind, but he is forever out of reach. Forever gone.

According to Voltaire, "Tears are the silent language of grief." When we have no words to describe our loss, when we have no way of comprehending the incomprehensible, all we have left are tears to communicate to us the depth of that knowledge and the depth of our loss. And so I weep.

Tagged: acceptance, death, grief, Kubler-ross, loss, loss of a mate, physical symptoms of grief, stages of grief, surving grief, Voltaire, yearning

Multi-Asking

Ever since my life mate died, my mind has churned with unaswerable questions.

Is he warm? Fed? Does he have plenty of cold liquids to drink? Is he sleeping well? Does he still exist somewhere as himself or has his energy been reabsorbed into the universe? Is he glad he's dead? He brought so much to my life, but what did I bring to his? Why can't I see him again? Why can't I talk with him? ? Will we meet again, or is death truly the end? Was it fate that we met? Fate that he died? I've been finding comfort in the thought that he is at peace, but what if he isn't? What if he's feeling as split apart as I am?

Will he recognize me if we ever meet again? Will he be proud of what I become? He helped make me the woman I am today, but what's it all for? Where am I going? And why? It does seem as if my life is a quest for truth, for understanding, but what's the point? I suppose the journey is the point, but still, at the end of a quest story, the hero returns with the magic elixir. She has a purpose for what she's gone through. Do I have a fate, a purpose? But what about him? What was his purpose? I try to make sense of his death, but how do you make sense of something senseless?

How do I find meaning, or at least a reason to continue living? Do I need a mate in order for my life to have meaning?

Can a person drown in tears? Yesterday someone told me that life on earth was an illusion and so my mate still exists. But if life is an illusion, why couldn't it be a happy figment? A joyful one? What's the point of pain? Of loss? Of suffering? Why did he have to suffer? Why do I? Do I have the courage to grow old alone? The courage to be old alone when the time comes?

Why do we cling so much to life? In the eternal scheme of things, does it matter how long or short a life is? Does it matter that he only had sixty-three years? Does it matter that he was alive? What is the truth of life and death? If he's in a better place, why aren't I there? If life is a gift, why was it taken from him?

Is there anything universally important? Love, perhaps, but not everyone loves or is loved. Creativity? But not everyone is creative. Truth? But what is truth? Is the human mind, with its finiteness, capable of understanding the truth? If nothing is universally important, does anything matter? Maybe it's better to let life flow, to try to accept what comes, but isn't the point of being human to try to make a difference? To try to change what is?

Supposedly, you can have a relationship with someone after they are dead, but it's all in the mind, in memory. What's the difference between that and fantasy? And how much of life is lived in the mind? All of it? All except the present? But even the present is lived in the mind since the mind (or rather the brain) takes the waves of nothingness and transform them into somethingness. So what is reality? The intersection of all minds?

I know there are no answers, I am simply . . . multi-asking.

Tagged: destiny, fate, grief, life, life after death, life and death, loss, meaning of life, questions, truth, universal importance, what matters

If Cowboys Had Wept . . .

During the first months after the death of my life mate—my soul mate—I sometimes felt I wasn't handing my grief well. I cried around others at the beginning (couldn't talk about his death without tears streaming down my face) but later I did my grieving in private. Only I (and my blog readers) knew what I was doing to assuage my grief, so why would I think I wasn't handling it well? Because I was weeping and wailing. In our present culture, tears are a sign of weakness, but who decided that weeping and wailing are inappropriate ways of relieving the incredible stress, pain, and angst of losing a long time mate? Such releases are necessary. Otherwise, where does the pain go? It either stays inside to cause emotional and physical damage, or it gets relieved by truly inappropriate behavior such as illicit drugs or misplaced anger.

Through thousands of movies and books, we are taught to be stoic, to hold back our tears, to be cool. Yul Brynner in The Magnificent Seven was the epitome of western cool, gliding across the film's landscape without a single show of emotion. Cinematic heroes such as he could relieve their tensions and emotions through shooting rampages, hard liquor, and harder women. Perhaps, if these men had wept, the west (at least the mythological west) would have been a more genteel place.

Many people, when hit with the maelstrom of emotions we call grief, feel as if they are going crazy. Oddly, I didn't, even though some of my actions and reactions would have made me a suitable candidate for a fictional madwoman. (Makes me wonder. Were those women hidden away in attics and tower rooms really crazy, or were they simply grief-stricken?) I knew I was sane, knew I was well adjusted, so any emotions I felt or things I did to comfort myself, by definition, were normal. Not having to worry about being crazy enabled me to deal with the pain itself rather than my reaction to it.

Like most people, I am afraid of pain, so I do not know where I got the courage to embrace the agony of losing my mate, to face it head on, arms open wide. But I did, and I still do. I don't cry where anyone can see me, mostly because my tears are private but also because I don't want to make people feel bad since there is nothing they can do about my sorrow.

And that, perhaps, is the real reason for tears being frowned on in our culture. We don't want to be confronted with the outward show of someone's grief because it forces us to confront our own weakness in the face of life's (and death's) enormity.

Tagged: cowboys, death, grief, loss, stress, tears, The Magnificent Seven, Yul Brynner

Post-Traumatic Tress Syndrome

During the two years before my life mate died, my naturally wavy hair became wiry and lost its curl. As a person ages and goes gray, the characteristics of one's hair changes, so I figured this was an age-related problem. It was a small problem considering everything else going on in my life, so I let my hair grow, wore it tied back, and forgot about it.

A few months after he died, I cut my hair, and was shocked by the further deterioration. It was so wiry and straight, it stood out from my head like a bush. Yikes. This was back when I was writing letters to my dead mate to help me get through the days, and I wrote:

With so much emotion and pain and sorrow and missing you and trying to reconcile your being gone with the memories of you still filling my head, what am I worried about today? My hair. Just like you said would happen as I got older, it's turning to straw. Straight as can be. I always looked terrible with long hair, but what other choice do I have? It won't hold a curl—just sticks out in all directions. I wonder what other people do? Oddly enough, I can find people to talk with about the big things but not the small everyday things that worry me.

About a month later, I noticed a bit of a crinkle at my hairline, and I realized my hair was starting to grow again (it hadn't grown much for a while) and that it was growing in normal. My diet now is atrocious. I have a hard time convincing myself discipline is a good thing, and I feel as if I should be treating myself. But until recently, I always ate healthily. Lots of vegetables, good protein, whole grains. The reason I mention this is that a bad diet can damage hair, but that wasn't the cause in my case. Nor did a diet change affect the change for the better.

For a while I had question mark hair—wavy toward the scalp, straight as can be on the ends—but a few weeks ago it was long enough that I could cut off the rest of the damaged bits. That's when I realized my hair change came not from aging but from . . . Post-Traumatic Tress Syndrome.

Grief is exceedingly stressful, and stress affects our tresses. Most often, people undergoing stress begin to lose their hair or go through a period when it stops growing, but apparently stress can also damage the cuticle (the outer layer of the hair shaft). Just another fun thing to have to deal with when so much else is going wrong in one's life. I'm far enough along in the grief process that I'm done with hair problems for now, at least until my bad diet catches up with me!

Tagged: damaged hair, dealing with grief, grief, hair, stress, stress and hair

I Thought I Was Through With Grief, But Grief Wasn't Through With Me

I'd planned to stop writing about grief. Someone I respect said, "There comes a time when it's healthy for one to move on and drop the grief banner. It comes at different times for different people and it is an important part of the healing process." I thought I was at that point. I've been getting on with my life, living each day as it comes, dealing with the loneliness, seeing the whole of our shared life rather than the terrible end.

For the most part, we had a good relationship. We were friends, life mates, and business partners. We helped each other grow. We never expected the other to fix our individual problems, though we often took each other's advice. We didn't cling, demand, or base our relationship on unrealistic expectations. Together we provided a safe environment where each of us could be ourselves. We supported each other in any way we could. And we enjoyed being together.

Long-term illness, however, skews a relationship. Over the years, our world kept getting smaller and smaller, trapping us in a life where neither his needs nor mine were being met. In that constricted world, small betrayals loomed large. Small disagreements seemed insurmountable. And there was guilt galore. After he died, I worked through all of those leftover problems, came to a greater understanding of our relationship and what his ill health had done to us, and finally realized we both acted the only way we could in such an untenable situation. I also dealt with the soul searing pain of loss, with the confusing physical symptoms. (Like falling in love, falling in grief causes changes in hormones and brain chemistry, and creates incredible stress, but unlike love, you can't regulate those changes with sex. Unless you're into necrophilia.)

I thought I was through with grief, but grief wasn't through with me. There was no great realization, no lightning bolt of discovery, just the truth settling into my soul: I'll never see him again in this lifetime.

Seems an obvious conclusion, doesn't it? I've been saying for fifteen months that he's gone, though I always accompanied the statement with a bewildered remark about not being able to fathom the sheer goneness of him. And yet somehow, someway, in the dark recesses of my mind, I felt as if we were on a break, as if I'd come to take care of my father for a while, just as I did for my mother, and soon I'd be going back to our life. It didn't help that, when I drove away from our home for the last time, his car was sitting out in front as it always did when I left. (I'd donated it to hospice, and they hadn't yet come to pick it up.) Nor did it help that I'd made this same trip, stayed in this same room several times before.

I've often listened for the phone, hoping he'd call to ask me to come home as he'd once done, but now I know the truth, I feel it.

Eleven months ago I wrote: I dread the time it hits me deep down in my soul that he is dead, that I will never be going home to him, that I will never see him again. Well, this is that time. There are no more issues to work through, guilt to suffer, or blame to lay. No more feelings of being rejected or abandoned (as if it were his choice to leave me). There is no more stress or gut-wrenching pain. Just pure and simple heartbreak. And silent tears.

Tagged: dealing with grief, death, grief, illness, loss, relationship, surving grief

M.I.C.E. (Types of Stories)

I thought we'd talk about M.I.C.E. No, not the little furry creatures, but Orson Scott Card's list of types of stories. In How to Write Science Fiction, he says there are 4 types of stories: Milieu, Idea, Character, Event. These are skewed toward Science Fiction, obviously, since he is a science fiction writer, but they seem fit with all stories/novels.

The Milieu is the world — the planet, the society, the weather, all the elements that come up during the world creation phase. Every story has a milieu, but in some stories, the milieu is the point of the story. It follows the basic structure of Gulliver's Travels — an observer goes to the strange place, sees all the world has to offer, and comes back a new person. The Milieu story obviously starts when the stranger arrives in the world and end when he leaves (or decides to stay for good).

The Idea is about the new bits of information that are discovered in the process of the story by characters who did not previously know that information. Idea stories are about the process of finding the information. The Idea story begins by raising a question; it ends when the question is answered.

The Character story is about the character's character. It's about the transformation of the character and the character's role in society. The attempt to change doesn't have to be a conscious decision, it can be unconscious, a seizing of an opportunity that takes him in a new direction. The Character story begins when something happens to make the character so dissatisfied with his present role that he begins the process of change. It ends when the character settles into his new role (happily or not) or gives up the struggle and remains in the old role (happily or not).

The Event story is about a change in the universe, a disorder, and the story begins when a new order is about to be established. The Event story begins when when the world becomes disordered and ends when a new order has been established. (Or when the world descends into chaos).

So, are there other basic types of stories? Do your stories/novels fit one of these categories? What is your Milieu, Idea, Character, Event? Most stories have more than one of these elements, so how do they fit together in your stories?

Tagged: Character story, Event story, Idea story, Milieu story, Orson Scott Card, science fiction

Grief Group Update

In my last post, I told you that I got kicked out of my grief support group. The facilitator cancelled the meeting this week to give us time to "self-evaluate." If we are functioning in the normal world, we are not allowed to return. Since we didn't want to leave the newest member of the group without support at this critical time, we went on a picnic during the regular meeting time. Decided we couldn't do without the group, but we could do without the facilitator.

We're all going to the scheduled meeting next week. (What's he going to do? Give us grief? That doesn't scare us. We've been there.) We want to find out the truth, whether the directive was instigated by hospice, by the facilitator himself because of personal problems, or in response to a complaint from the one member who doesn't get the point of sharing. We just need to find a permanent place to meet. So far we haven't had any luck, but we won't let that stop us. We'll meet at members' houses, maybe at the park occasionally.

I called hospice last week and talked to the director. She professed ignorance of the matter, showed a decided lack of enthusiasm about my request to use the meeting room for our new group, promised to call me back, and never did. She also always seems to be out when I call her.

Strange goings on. Feels like high school. Or worse.

Even more bewildering, we were told they needed to pare down the group to make room for an influx of new members, yet they've been advertising the group on the radio. Huh?

Chances are, if the facilitator had kept his mouth shut, several of us would have left the group in the next couple of months anyway, but this whole situation has brought us closer together. Like disaster survivors.

Perhaps I have stayed with the group longer than absolutely necessary, but even if I'm just there to be around those who understand, what's wrong with that? My grief is dissipating, (though I am troubled by an upsurge in tears the past three weeks).  Mostly I feel like I'm disappearing from life. Don't feel quite real.

The truth is, I'm functioning well in the normal world (except for the small matter of being unable to write). It's the abnormal world of grief I have problems with.

Tagged: death, grief, grief support group, loss

I Got Kicked Out Of My Grief Support Group

I got kicked out of my grief support group. During the last meeting, the facilitator told us there was going to be a big influx of new people to the group, though why there would be an influx and how he knew this, he didn't say. What he did say was that if we were able to function, if we were able to go about our daily activities, we were supposed to leave the group. He also said the group was too social, but isn't that the purpose of a group? To support each other? We did talk before and after the meeting, but during the meeting, we stuck to the subject — grief — which was why we were all there. It was the only place we could continue sharing our sad tales and talk about what we were feeling. The rest of the world has passed on, leaving us alone with our emptiness and our tears.

In order to break up the group, the facilitator said he was going to cancel meetings for a month so we could evaluate ourselves, and then if we really, really, really needed the group, we could return. This stunned the heck out of me. Because he thought some people had overstayed their welcome, he was going to leave the newly bereft without any support for a month!! With Father's Day almost here? He finally agreed to cancel only a single meeting, but still, the whole concept is appalling.

Apparently, a group in another town turned into a social gathering, and to change the focus, that group was cancelled for a month. Only two people returned after the meetings resumed, and the facilitators congratulated themselves on a job well done. But no one checked to see why the others didn't come back. Perhaps, like me, they felt betrayed. A place that was supposed to be safe suddenly became dangerous. Sure, I could go back, but I'd never be able to open up again. I'd always be wondering if I was being judged, if I wasn't going through grief fast enough to suit the facilitator, if I were depriving some other poor soul of a say, if I were being too social or too articulate. (Apparently, my ability to talk articulately about grief is a drawback. Though why, I don't know. Just because I can put into words what others feel does not mean I'm not feeling grief myself.)

The facilitator kept saying, "This is hard for me." He never even looked at the shocked faces of the group participants, just kept saying how hard it was for him. Who cares how hard it was for him? He shouldn't have said it in the first place. (I'm not supposed to talk about what goes on in the group, but since I am no longer a participant, I can say what I want. Besides, it was more my group than his. I understood what people were going through. He didn't. How could he? He still has his spouse. Until you've lost a long-time mate, you cannot know, cannot comprehend the vast physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual changes such a death brings to one's life.)

We were originally told we could keep attending meetings as long as we needed. In fact, Medicare demands that hospice provide bereavement counseling for a minimum of thirteen months. Nowhere in that regulation does it say grievers are prohibited from attending if they could function in the world. Besides, if we couldn't function, we never would have been able to attend in the first place.

I'd stopped going to the bereavement group for a while, then returned to help support a friend through the worst of her grief, but it's come full circle and I need the group for me again. I was okay for the first two months after the anniversary of my life mate's death, but the truth — that he is irrevocably gone — has seeped into the depths of my being, and I am feeling heartbroken. I need to be with those who understand this upsurge in grief. Who don't mind my tears. Who know that the calendar means nothing when it comes to grief. Who realize that yes, the newly bereft need support, but so do those who are further along.

But now that solace has been denied me, and I'll have to go through this next stage of grief alone.

Tagged: bereavement group, betrayal, death of a spouse, going through grief, grief, loss, surviving grief