Coping with Grief
08 Aug 2011 1 Comment
If anyone knows how, please tell me.
Don’t get me wrong… I know that there are many, many ways to get through hard times. My faith in God, my family, a few close friends that I can confide in and at least one that I trust implicitly with everything in my head, good, bad, and ugly… I am extremely blessed in these areas, and these are the things that have helped me survive. I simply do not know where I would be now without them, but grief is a monster that won’t let go.
A couple of months after my mom died from complications of Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, the song I Still Miss You by Keith Anderson came on the radio. Like so many things did so easily at the time, it smacked me across the face and twisted the knife. It still chokes me up when I hear it.
I’ve talked to friends, talked to myself
Talked to God, I’ve prayed like hell
But I still miss you
I’ve tried sober, I’ve tried drinking
I’ve been strong and I’ve been weak
and I still miss you
Two months after Mom died, I had no expectations that I was supposed to be anything but grieving. I can’t tell you how many times, how many different people, told me “The first year is the hardest…
it’ll get easier.” I knew that the first holiday would be hard, the first birthday (mine – no one cares about your birthday like your mother does), my daughter’s first *everything* – she was six months old when Mom died and so nearly all of her “firsts” were still ahead of us – I knew those would be gut-wrenching, and they were. The first Christmas was excruciating. When Mom’s birthday passed eleven months later, the grief was still overwhelming. The first anniversary of her death came and even though it was hard I had hope that I was finally going to be on the mend. Everyone said it would get easier, so it must be true.
Three years and three months later, I’m still waiting for it to get easier. I guess in a way it has, because I am able to function without the help of Zoloft, which was definitely not something I felt I could do that first year. I can sometimes sleep through the night without dreaming about her, waking up either in tears or with the weight of a herd of elephants on my chest. I can enjoy my daughter, whereas during the first year of her life I was mainly going through the motions, trying not to think about how much I wanted to share my daughter with my mother, and my mother with my daughter. Still, every time Ally does something new, cute, advanced, or destructive, the first person I want to call is Mom. Three years later, there is still the occasional moment where I reach for the phone before I remember that she’s not on the other end of it anymore. Three years later, when the world has moved on, I miss her more and not less.
Difficulty and tragedy have hit my family more than once since then. My dad, a year and a half ago, was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Thankfully his treatment was successful and he is in
remission, though I have to admit that another Lymphoma diagnosis was more than enough to make me raise my hands to God and ask “Really?”
A few months later, my precious cousin lost her 2-year-old baby girl Reagan to Meningitis. There are no words that can describe that, and there is nothing in the world that can make it right.
But most devastating and difficult to cope with was the loss of my stepfather in February of this year. This event was not the most tragic, but by far the most difficult because Jim chose to take himself away from us. I know… I know that what I have been going through since Mom died doesn’t compare to what he had been going through. She was his entire world. He had no real family of his own and so her family, our family, was his family. His life was devoted to caring for her and he spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep her alive for the seven years we were not supposed to have with her. When she was diagnosed, he had spent decades creating something from nothing, financial security that would hold them for the rest of their lives and probably most of ours. In the following seven years,
seeking every avenue to make her better, that nest egg dwindled to nothing, and when she was gone, so was the money.
The market tanked and his development business went down with it. Jim had worked like a dog his entire life so that he and Mom would never have to worry, but he told me, when he called to tell me he was losing everything, that he didn’t regret it, he would do it all over again, and he was at peace. He was losing the home he’d built – literally – with his own two hands, the only *place* he’d ever truly loved. “I’m not angry at God, and I’m okay. I’ll keep doing what I’ve always done.”
A month later, on February 20th, he did the opposite, and took his own life.
I have always felt strongly that suicide is the most selfish act a person can commit. I have always heard stories about it and cringed, thinking I knew what kind of pain that will cause the people left behind. I did know what kind, I just didn’t understand how much.
On top of the pain of losing someone, which most everyone has experienced, there is also anger. I am angry with him for doing it. I’m angry with him for thinking that his own pain was enough to justify
intentionally inflicting it on us. Now, not only do we have to cope with losing Mom, but he forced us to cope with losing him, too. HE forced us. Mom fought for her own life, not for her sake but for ours. She said so in a note she wrote shortly before she died. “I have cried tears for my family’s pain…” She refused to give up until we gave her permission to let go. Jim didn’t give us the option.
In June we were going down to do the final clearing out of the house Jim had been moving into, and my three year old told me she wanted to see PawPaw. I told her that we weren’t going to see PawPaw today because he was in Heaven with Noni (my mom). My precious daughter’s eyes welled up with tears and she started to cry and said “I want to go see Noni and PawPaw in heaven, too.”
I know he was suffering. I know that for a man like him to do what he did, his suffering was beyond endurance. I know this, I understand it, and many people have made it a point to remind me of it, but still, I’m angry.
There is guilt, too. I knew he had struggled and I knew that there was nothing substantial that I could do. But at least a thousand times since that Sunday afternoon when my brother called to tell me, I’ve wondered what if? What if I’d called him that morning? He probably wouldn’t have answered the phone, I know this because other people had tried to call him. But what if he had? What if I could’ve told him one more time that I loved him, that I was praying for him, that anything I could do for him I would? Would that have changed his mind? Logically, probably not. Emotionally, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering if one phone call could’ve changed his mind.
He’d been planning it for a while. This much we feel fairly sure about. His behavior even seven or eight months beforehand had caused more than one raised eyebrow. At least twice it prompted my husband to ask me, “Jim wouldn’t do anything stupid… would he?” My answer the first time was “No way.” The second time, I had to think about it, but I was still so certain in my heart that he loved us too much to hurt himself, and anyone who knew him knew that his positivity was relentless. He had many bad days after we lost Mom, but I never seriously considered the possibility that he would put himself first. There wasn’t much precedent for that in his life. I can’t think of many times when he put himself first, and the only one that comes to mind was his refusal to accept letting Mom go, when every doctor told us it was time, and I can’t blame him for that one.
As much as I thought a man like him would never do such a selfish thing, the truth is that a man like him could never be talked out of doing it once he’d made up his mind.
And even so, there is still anger, and there is still guilt.
And the grief that has not lessened any in the last three years for my mom is now compounded.
A month or so ago I had a dream about her, the first one I remembered vividly in a while. There were dozens of people at the lakehouse, cleaning it out, mourning. Mom was there, and the weight on my chest was present even in the dream. I looked at her and sighed, and said “This is all your fault, you know.” I woke up crying, angry at myself for blaming her.
I guess grieving feelings of anger and guilt are not limited to suicide.
I feel helpless, so hopeless,
It’s a door that never closes
No, I don’t know how to do this.
NaNoWriMo (In Which You Consider Having Me Institutionalized)
12 Nov 2009 2 Comments
MUSE [myooz] (n) – What a writer calls the voices in their head to make them more socially acceptable.
***
In my facebook notes there is already a bit too much of a confession about just how deserving I am of a straight jacket. I’ve gotten a little confirmation from fellow writers, telling me I’m not alone, and that they’re just as crazy as I am, and that’s comforting.
This year, I’m trying something new. NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month, which is, well, now, for those of you not in the know). I think this is really the crown jewel on my insanity… a 50,000 word novel in 30 days?? It’s not impossible – the breakdown is only 1,667 words a day every day of the month, so if you have the discipline to sit down and write for a couple of hours a day, every day, it’s a reasonable goal.
Who has anything else to do in November?
But seriously, even if you fall behind, miss a day, whatever, you just have to keep at it, because there will be the occasional day when the words flow and you’ll do much, much better than 1,667.
Last week, mere days into NaNo and managing to keep up with the wordcount (it was difficult, I’ll admit. Every word felt like pulling a tooth. I had no rhythm. No flow.) my Muse tapped me on the shoulder and whispered something that had nothing to do with the story I was working on so diligently for NaNo. Uh-uh, I said. I’m writing a middle-grade fantasy for NaNo. Forget it.
I ignored the Muse. (And I have a feeling that those writerly types reading this just groaned internally. Or maybe out loud.)
Over the weekend, I was pretty busy with some family time, and some football (Again, O Great Creator of NaNoWriMo… November? Seriously?) so my word count fell behind a little. Not much, just around a day’s worth. Enough to make me panicky, though, because that meant a double load for the next day. And remember, everything was creeping along too slowly anyway. If it weren’t for the committment I’d made for NaNo, I would’ve given up on that story pretty quickly. The plot was there, for the most part, but it just wasn’t calling to me.
Anyway, there was a big milestone goal for Monday night at midnight: to be at 15,000 words. So on Sunday and Monday I plowed ahead, and at some point before midnight, I actually managed to cross that 15,000 word mark. I was proud of myself, but all day, that pesky Muse was nudging me, muttering in my ear what she wanted me to write. I continued to ignore her, though she was starting to hurt my head a little bit.
Tuesday I got up and opened up the MG Fantasy document, and stared at the screen. And stared. And stared. I typed out a few (really lame) words. I stared some more.
Meanwhile, Le Muse was tap-dancing on my forehead and shouting. Other words formed in my head, but I repressed them, because they had nothing to do with fairies or centaurs or elves. I tried to focus on the task at hand, tried to keep on, but the words just stopped coming. I would compare what that Muse was doing to someone banging your head in a pair of cymbals.
I gave up and opened a new document. Words came out. More words. Then the husband came home and we had to go compare prices on new TVs and stands to put a new TV on and then we had to eat dinner and then my daughter needed a bath and then and then and then.
So yesterday I get up and HALLELUJAH I had some uninterupted time to give the voices in my head the time and attention they were demanding.
By the time I closed everything down last night and stumbled my way to bed, I’d written around 7,500 words, a personal record.
My mind and emotions were so wrapped up in the dramatic situation I was writing about that several times I had to just stop, to let myself calm down, and even when I shut down the ol’ document for the night they didn’t stop. In fact, I had a startling realization last night: I’d already been working some clues into the storyline, building up to a major plot point that I wasn’t even consciously aware was coming.
It’s a little disturbing to admit that I’m not in control of it, but it’s a little like trying to hold in a yawn after someone’s yawned in front of you, or even mentioned yawning.
Admit it, you just yawned.
Let’s Get Together, yeah yeah yeah
23 Sep 2009 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: writing
I am absolutely fascinated with the concept of collaborative fiction writing. Probably this stems from my love of online role-playing, which I was heavily involved with a decade or so ago. I imagine that it’s similar, like when you’re involved in a storyline with someone, only deeper and much, much more involved. That would be fine with me, seeing as how I could never get enough of it anyway, when working with someone whose writing I enjoyed.
Oh, I’m sure it’s more involved than I realize, but still, the idea intrigues me.
The first book that comes to mind when I think about collaboration is The Nanny Diaries by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus. Even though I knew when I read it that it had been written by co-authors, I had no idea until much, much later that they’d taken it in turns to write. I imagine that it’s difficult for two people to write from the same character’s perspective and maintain any sort of flow in the voice. I don’t think I’d enjoy writing that way, because what I love about collaborating on a storyline is how much more authentic it is to have a separate character with a whole separate way of thinking.
Since I found out how Emma and Nicola wrote The Nanny Diaries, I’ve re-read it and tried to spot subtle changes in how each chapter sounds. Honestly, they were either twins separated at birth, or had a really excellent editor, because my amatuer eyes can’t pick up on it. Amateur I may be, but I’m pretty sensitive to voice continuity, and it never fails to frustrate me when something is not written the same way in the beginning as it is at the end.
The only way it would work for me is if I found someone who would be as obsessive about it as I am. When I’m up to my eyeballs in my imagination, I dwell on it, and would have very little patience with a partner who was half-hearted about it. It’s a chief character flaw for me, impatience. But hey, everyone should be willing to be dedicated enough to neglect things like eating and sleeping, doing their real job and seeing the sun… right? It’s not so much to ask.
Well, maybe I’m a little bit too obsessive.
But in the event that I could find someone who could share my enthusiasm for a project, I think it would be a lot of fun. A unique experience.
I’ve been having some fun with one of my old roleplaying partners today, with two of our characters that had a fascinating relationship. She’s been giving me situations to write about, and I’ve been able to get inside my favorite character’s head and write how she would’ve reacted, what she would’ve been thinking. I call it snippet writing, usually somewhere in the neighborhood of 300-500 words, mostly internal dialogue. It’s a form of character development for me, and I enjoy doing it that way quite as much as I enjoyed my soundtrack game* for the novel I wrote earlier this year.
I could quite literally do it all day long.
I wonder if anyone has collaborated on a novel that way, mixing role-playing with multiple perspectives. I’m sure they have before and I’m just ignorant of it, but I’d be interested to see something written in that format. Meanwhile, if anyone has a strong desire to give it a try…. well, I could miss a meal or two, and I hear the sun causes skin cancer.
*The soundtrack game was this: Since I am an audiophile, I do my best writing when I have music playing. I set up a playlist for my novel-writing in iTunes, and had it on shuffle about 90% of the time I was writing. After it was all finished and my stepmother had read the book, I told her (for introspection as much as anything else) to ask me about certain scenes, and I’d find the song that inspired me or helped me put myself in the mood of the scene. That was *fun* because it surprised me as often as it didn’t.
IndoctriNation
04 Sep 2009 2 Comments
in Uncategorized Tags: obama, parenting, politics
There is a lot of controversy right now about President Obama’s plan to speak directly to school children next week.
In general, I think it’s a little silly to be so concerned about children being exposed to, gasp, the president. After all, he was elected by a majority in a democratic society, and – again, generally speaking - that should inspire enough confidence in us that we wouldn’t think twice about it. Unfortunately, this is not the case, and hasn’t been in a long, long time. We’re irreparably partisan, it’s just a fact, and nobody trusts the ‘other side’ to maintain respect for our parental right to shelter our children and raise them our own way.
We have one thing in common, no matter what political or religious beliefs we have: We all – every one of us - think we’re right. As adults, we can choose to coexist peacefully, to state our opinions and speak our belief, and if we’re really optimistic, we think we can change someone’s mind who already has their mind made up. In reality, you can’t change someone else’s mind unless they want it to be changed. This is true of adults.
It’s not so much true of children. Children are highly impressionable, and it is our privelege – no, it’s our right and responsibility - as parents to impress upon them those beliefs and values that are important to us and to shield them from those we don’t agree with. After all, once they’re grown, it’s out of our hands. It’s a very brief period of time we have to teach them the values we hope they will hold on to as adults.
Responsible parents investigate and know what is in the books or movies or music or curriculum in school, and do not allow their children to be exposed to it if it’s not in line with their values. So why would we blindly allow someone – even the president – to speak directly to them if none of us know the subject matter? Is it a general “stay in school, stay off drugs, do your best” message? If so, great, but prove it. I don’t automatically trust politicians because, and I know this will come as a shock to you, sometimes… politicians lie.
It’s not really important what the message is. What is important is that we are fully informed and are given the choice to let it be absorbed in those little minds we are completely responsible for. If we’re not afforded the opportunity to preview the complete text of Obama’s speech before he gives it, I can’t say I blame the parents whose kids are mysteriously sick Tuesday. If there’s nothing to hide, I don’t think it’s an unreasonable request, and the parental concern shouldn’t be garnering so much criticism.
You’re Doing It Wrong
24 Aug 2009 Leave a Comment
in Uncategorized Tags: ally, parenting
Ask anyone who has ever had a baby, and they’ll tell you. People LOVE to tell you what you’re doing wrong.
The really frustrating thing is that no matter what you’re doing, what decisions you’re making, there is always someone that thinks it’s the wrong way and is more than happy to tell you so.
Take sleeping, for example. There are the co-sleepers, the cry-it-outers, and everyone in between. I’m very much accustomed to the wide-eyed stares and gasps I get when people discover that my 21-month-old daughter still sleeps oh so happily between us. Ally’s bed – now transformed from crib to toddler daybed - is a prop, something to be utilized during playtime, somewhere she can go that Chloe (our daily houseguest, ten months younger) can’t reach her. Her pink and brown crib set is monogrammed with her name. Her stuffed animals sit proudly among the fluffy, snuggly pillows I was so excited to find. It’s cute, sure, but mention something about sleeping there, and Ally’s little brow will wrinkle in confusion.
Then she’ll snuggle down between Mommy and Daddy and snore her little heart out.
Another thing people love to chime in about is breastfeeding. While we’re still not to the point in our civilization that people openly shun the act of nursing altogether, we’re getting close. Breastfeeding in public is a tremendous no-no – which, by the way, I don’t fully disagree with. I can’t count the number of times I had to take Ally to the car, or into a dressing room, or yes, sometimes even a bathroom in order to nurse her, and while that was often inconvenient, I see no reason for the general public to be familiar with the utilitarian nature of my breasts. Whether or not people should feel uncomfortable about it, they do, and I’m not in the business of conversion.
The biggest issue is that I am still nursing Ally. Most people are supportive for at least six months, even up to a year, but past that and you start to get some funny looks. Yes, Ally’s almost two years old, and if I’d let her, she’d still nurse every four minutes. I try to remind her that I’m not a water fountain, but believe me, it’s not easy to keep it under control, and to be honest, I am way past ready to have sole ownership of my body again. However, the very first time I had to take Ally to the doctor for a sick visit, she was 17 months old. That is virtually unheard-of, and the doctor said “Wow, you have breastfeeding to thank for that.”
The truth of the matter is that co-sleeping and nursing well into toddlerhood are both perfectly common practices in most cultures, and this is one of few that even question it. Personally, I’m of the opinion that every child is different, as is every family, and it’s difficult enough to find your own way without worrying what other people think of the decisions you make. No matter what the decision is – whether it’s co-sleeping, nursing, education, television, discipline, nutrition – there will always be someone telling you how much better their way is. Let them judge, let them condemn, and when they tell you how WRONG you are, just nod and smile politely, and then do it your way.
Being a nanny for a solid eight years before I had my own child mellowed me quite a bit, and certainly gave me some valuable experience, especially with regard to what’s important to me and what isn’t. I’ve seen many different parenting styles in action, and for the most part, the children turn out just fine.
So, go ahead and tell me what you think, but don’t be surprised when, next time you talk to me, Ally’s still nursing and sleeping right next to me. I may be doing it wrong, but I kinda think you are, too.
