Everyone around you is grieving. Go easy.

"Unless anyone passing by looked deeply into my bloodshot eyes or noticed the occasional break in my voice and thought enough to ask, it’s not like they’d have known what’s happening inside me or around me. They wouldn’t have had any idea of the gaping sinkhole that had just opened up and swallowed the normal life of the guy next to them in the produce section."  John Pavlovitz https://johnpavlovitz.com/2019/02/21/everyone-around-you-is-grieving-go-easy/?

I thought similar thoughts this past week as we watched and waited with our son who has brain cancer.  The temporary assistant pastor at Phil’s church who has been visiting him—her husband died 8 months ago, and her tenderness and caring helps her grieve.  Our own Pastor Dave who came to the hospital through the terrible fog to pray with us the morning of surgery—both his own son and grandson, child of another son, died the summer of 2018. A friend from high school days who came to the hospital to see Phil who is going through a painful divorce—the death that never ends.  My cousin Gayle who faithfully ministers to a small group of women who are prayer warriors and whose husband died after a long illness. My neighbors who are struggling with this same disease in their 33 year old daughter-in-law, mother of 2 toddlers. Adrienne, my long time library colleague and coffee buddy who had hip surgery this week and is caring for her husband who has Parkinson’s Disease.  Sweet Annie and dear Sonja, both battling different forms of cancer in their 40s whose parents (my age) have to stand aside and let them decide. My sister-in-law at 83 driving her husband to dialysis 3 times a week and watching him change before her eyes.

Everyone is grieving.  Just be kind.

“Parents whose children are terminally ill.
Couples in the middle of divorce.
People grieving loss of loved ones and relationships.
Kids being bullied at school.
Teenagers who want to end their lives.
People marking the anniversary of a death.
Parents worried about their depressed teenager.
Spouses whose partners are deployed in combat.
Families with no idea how to keep the lights on.
Single parents with little help and little sleep.”

Recovery from the death of a beloved pet

I packed up all Lotsa Spotsa's kitty things (our calico who died Monday) with her cat food and litter in a big shopping bag and looked up the address of Cat Welfare where we found her in 1999 to donate them. Stopped to browse the adoptable cats--female, adult, small, colorful, friendly. Big mistake. Maybe I'd better wait awhile.

But I did have to laugh at this story on the website about a successful placement:

"We lost George, our 17-year-old cat, at the end of June 2015. He was such a good friend and companion that we knew we could not replace him for a long, long time. And when we did, we knew we'd replace him with another calm, older cat. We waited eight days. Then we adopted these three goofy kittens. They were tiny when we got them, however, they have grown into their current collective nickname, "The Fatties." They shed too much and stink fairly often and destroy most everything but they are big, happy healthy girls -- sisters -- who we love to pieces and we couldn't imagine life without them. George would be appalled but, on some level, would probably grudgingly approve."

 

Grief recovery, what is helpful and unhelpful

“Allow me to share my current personal observations, as a way of stimulating your own reflection… John Eldredge, Ransomed Heart Ministries, reflecting on the death of a good friend and colleague, as posted on Facebook

Helpful: Generous amounts of sunshine. Gardens, the woods - everything living and green. Long walks. Lonesome country roads. Swimming. Beauty. Music. Water. Friendly dogs (I’ve never understood it when someone says to me, “Yeah - we’re not really dog people.” That’s like saying, “Yeah - we’re not really joy people”). Chocolate. Kindness. Compassion. Not expecting myself to produce the same level of work I normally accomplish in a day. Yard work. Building a fence.

Unhelpful: Grocery stores. Malls. Television. Traffic. Draining people wanting to talk to me (friends and family are at this moment wondering which category they fall into. It’s quite simple - draining people are those who live out of touch with their own soul, and thus mine). Airports. The news - especially politics. Social media. Your typical dose of movie violence.

One fit widow

What has not killed me has made me stronger. I’m a mother, a business owner, athlete, and a widow. I lost my husband, and then I lost 80 pounds and found that living through loss can change you – dare I say for the better.

How to help the grieving. http://www.onefitwidow.com/how-to-help-the-grieving/

Friday Family Photo—sort of

Today I turned on 610 a.m. and got dead air.  It was Glenn Beck so overcome with grief about his dog Victor that he couldn’t speak.  Glenn gets a lot of hassle from the lefties for his tears (progressives don’t cry), but you’d  have to be awfully hard hearted not to tear up a little on this one. He prepared his children by watching Roma Downey’s “The Bible.”  They talked about faith and love.  He wanted to bury Victor but was afraid what would happen to him if the family moved, so he will be cremated.

At first I thought I would never be able to remember all the dogs I wept over—because dogs that live outside just don’t live long. And their awful deaths! 

Lassie, 1944 (killed on my grandmother’s farm near Franklin Grove while we were in California during WWII)

Large stray we had for a few weeks in Alameda—he was sick; if we  named him, I don’t remember it. I’m guessing he’d been abandoned by another military family and my mom took pity on him. 1945

Laddie, 1946 (hit by a Greyhound bus when he followed us children to town, Forreston)

Jerry, 1948 (hit by a car in front of our brick house on the high-way in Forreston)

Pretty, 1948  (black and white small collie mix who had puppies under our neighbor’s porch; I think she was given to a farmer just in case she had more pups)

Curly, 1949  (one of Pretty’s pups we got to keep who disappeared when my brother and I were on a trip with Mom and grandparents)

Zero, 1949 winter (large ugly hound who “followed” me home from school one day which was against the rules; disappeared)

Lady, 1950-52 (a beautiful Dalmatian that didn’t like my mom until she learned that is who fed her regularly—died of skin cancer, buried behind the garage at 4 South Hannah)

Polka-dot, 1952-1963 (Dalmatian mix, our only indoor pet—after 1958; died of old age, I think)

        

Grieving

for friends and family who refuse to see the evil going on right under our noses.  They cling, not to guns and religion, but to old habits and behaviors.  They don’t want to be wrong, so they declare they are not wrong. They only watch or read news carefully filtered through the administration and are just as naïve as were the people of the USSR or the Chinese under Mao. Unless CNN or Dave Letterman suddenly see the light, I think they are close in culpability and no returning from the edge.  They disliked Bush for almost the exact things Obama is doing on steroids—out of control spending and interfering in civil wars in the middle east for our benefit.  They can’t see beyond the R or D after a candidate’s name.

 

 

#22 The anniversary

I'm at an age where many of my friends have lost a spouse. Some a number of years ago. Like the happy anniversaries of birthdays and weddings, there are sad anniversaries too. The ones that give you pause when you remember and to which you don't call attention. This poem is about that, but it could be the anniversary of any loss.

I read this poem at the poetry "open mic" at our library this October.

“The Anniversary"
August 10, 2003

The first year is the hardest.
In your mind you're wearing black;
you still hear his voice
see his smile
feel his touch and
pick up the phone
to share and then
you remember.

The second year is harder yet.
You've shed the arm band;
now you don't hear his voice
or see his smile
or smell his clothes and
there's only black holes
where once you had
your memories.

The third year is just a blur.
Mourning is officially over;
you fill up the calendar pages
make new friends
buy tickets for a cruise and
stand here surprised
when he's not home
to share it all.

The fourth year is a wake up call.
Everyone else has moved on;
you decide instead of nothing
you'd rather have the pain
and sleepless nights
and wonder why they said
Time would be your friend