Circling the Drain

One of the many things that caught me off-guard about the grief process is how completely exhausting it is.  At first, I thought my fatigue was the culmination of the sleeplessness that came from caring for a critically ill person who, as in our case, almost never slept.  My mom, my sisters, and I were so far in the red on sleep it would have been understandable if that alone caused us to sleep for a week solid after my dad went on ahead.

But in researching and in learning first-hand about the grief process, I've found that grief itself is a cause of exhaustion, both physical and emotional.  Grief is hard work, whether we realize it or not; it's taxing in so many ways and on so many levels, even while we are sleeping or doing routine things like showering or driving to work.  

Probably the most physically taxing thing I've ever done in my life, besides coping with grief, has been running a marathon. Each time I've done that, I've trained for months in advance, I've read about what I should be doing to make it to the finish line, I've put effort into visualizing myself completing the event, and I've been in very good condition going into the race.  None of those things were true going into my dad's illness or his death - or being plunged into the quicksand of grief that followed.  In fact, another thing I've realized that actually contributes to the fatigue and the sense of overwhelm is that, in grief, there is no finish line.  The emotions that come with grief may seem as if they are easier to take or even fading over time, but what's actually happening is that the person who is grieving is becoming more adept at tolerating the assault as they become more seasoned or even more hardened.  

For the first six months or so after my dad died, I tried my damnedest to dream about him; I felt (and still feel) such a desperate need to have any kind of contact with him.  I had a few dreams about him, which I wrote about here and here, but then I went quite awhile with nothing.  My conjuring powers were apparently shot, at least for that time period. What ended up happening after that instead was that I started dreaming that someone was trying to kill me, obviously a very disturbing and terrifying experience, one that easily reminded me - not so coincidentally - of how I felt in Real Life starting the second my dad got sick.

I've heard it said that dreams are often the mind's way of helping us to work through our troubles; I'm not sure that applies to this situation, though: I wanted to lose the feelings of powerlessness and terror and injustice, not to experience them again and again as I did each time a dream like that came to me.  I sometimes wonder if my brain was trying to desensitize me to that feeling - because, as I've learned from what happened with my dad - that's life, it's going to happen, and no amount of training or learning or otherwise preparing can actually help when things happen that cause the grief to bear down on us; I think the best we can do is to accept that it's going to happen and to have enough hope and faith that we will get through it, somehow.  

Lucid Dreaming

I've recently started sleeping to the sound of a white-noise program called Brain Waves, which is available as an iPhone/iPad app.

The program is supposed to influence one's state of mind according to the setting selected by the user by playing sounds that are perceived by the brain in such a way that normal brain waves that occur in various mental states are simulated to promote those states in the listener.

The setting I've been using is called Lucid Dreaming.  (You can probably see where I'm going with this.)  Since starting to use this program, I have had lots of dreams, many not really that interesting - but also a few about my dad.

Last night I dreamed that he and I were running together along a country road, counting telephone poles that we passed as we ran, and at some point my dad said, "I guess you can just go along thinking about how many more poles you have to pass before you get to the finish, or you can stop counting and enjoy the scenery instead."  The rest of the dream ended up being pretty monotonous,  with just the two of us running together in silence enjoying the run, but I woke up thinking about what he'd said to me in the dream and the application of those words to my life these days: rushing from deadline to deadline, working to get past one event to the next, thinking mostly about how I can pass through the things that bring me stress or that make me focus more on my grief.  The point is clear: I can choose to continue doing things that way, or I can choose to focus on the good and enjoy each day along the way.

                Good run, Dad; thanks //

Measuring the Course

As far back as I can remember, one of my dad's routines after he got home from a long run was to immediately jump into the car to drive the route he had run to measure the exact distance of the course.  (This was WAY before GPS systems existed.) Most people would probably choose to sit down to rest as soon as they could after a strenuous workout, but Dad was the kind of person who couldn't stand to let grass grow under his feet.  He taught us to have honor and priorities, to set goals, to set our mind to doing things and then to follow through. WAY before Nike said it, he used to say “Just Do It” whenever he heard someone make an excuse for not doing something they should have been doing; I remember so many tough runs when he would tell me to tuck in behind him so that he could block the wind for me after he'd said “Put your head down and let's just do it.”

If Dad could have “driven the course” at the end of his life, if he could have had the opportunity to examine what he had done and the choices that he had made along the way – I wonder to what he would’ve made adjustments.  Not much, I would venture to guess, and I think that’s pretty damn remarkable.  I'm not sure there are many people in this world who would be able to say the same.

Here's a question with some Food for Thought: What would your biggest regret be if today was your last day of life, and how can you attempt to right that regret?

Bronnie Ware is an Australian nurse who spent several years working in palliative care, caring for patients in the last few weeks or months of their lives. She recorded their dying epiphanies in a blog called Inspiration and Chai, and later she put her observations into a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying.  Ware writes of the clarity of vision that people often acquire towards the end of their lives and of how others can learn from their wisdom. "When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently," she says, "common themes surfaced again and again."

Here are the top five end-of-life regrets, according to Ware:

"I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me."  Looking back over the course of their lives (measuring the course), people often recognize that certain dreams they've had that have not been fulfilled, making this the most common regret of the dying.  And, as we learned when my dad got sick, by the time a person realizes that he needs to hurry to try to realize those remaining dreams, his health (and sometimes other obstacles) often restricts those goals from being attainable.

"I wish I didn't work so hard." Ware says that this was a regret shared by every male patient she cared for (and some of the women too).  What they wished they had done instead of staying late at the office so many times was to have gone to their children's ball games or school programs or to have spent more time with their spouse or other loved ones.  

"I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings."  Ware says that many people reported that they had suppressed their emotions in order to keep peace with others.  They regretted not having told someone that they were angry with them - or that they loved them.  Sometimes this is a regret that can be addressed in the final stages of life, but many times the years that have passed since the issue began make it impossible to right on down the road.

"I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends."  In the midst of our hectic daily lives, it's easy to lose track of people who have meant so much to you and whose impact you may not realize until it's too late.  Again, sometimes when the person who is dying expresses this regret, loved ones from the past can be contacted, but many times it isn't possible.  

"I wish that I had let myself be happier."   The realization that death is near can give a person new perspective on things, and one of the things that is commonly realized is that happiness is a choice.  The clarity that often comes at this stage of life helps people to see the good in their lives much more clearly than they did before.  Other things like material goods no longer seem important.  People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible, but it is not money or status that hold true value for them as they near the finish line - it's love, both given and received.  

How You Can Help Me (Author Unknown)

I came across this passage today and thought it was worth sharing ...

HOW YOU CAN HELP ME

~author unknown

Please talk about my loved one, even though he is gone. It is more comforting to cry than to pretend that he never existed. I need to talk about him, and I need to do it over and over. 

Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand. 

Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you to know that." 

Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I feel only if you really have time to find out. 

I am not strong. I'm just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel that you don't see me. I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after my loved one's death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For I am not only grieving his death, but also the person I was when I was with him, the life that we shared, the plans we had, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled, and I will never be the same. 

I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my loved one and rather than recover, I want to incorporate his life and love into the rest of my life. He is a part of me and always will be, and sometimes I will remember him with joy and other times with a tear. Both are okay. 

I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just not acceptable. When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and alone. I feel badly enough that my loved one is dead, so please don't make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right. And remember, I was a capable adult before his death and I still am.

I don't even understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get on with your life." My life is going on, I've been forced to take on many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget and there will always be times that I cry. 

I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in my own way, and in my own time. 

Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have. So, in advance, let me give you some ideas: 

(a) Bring food or a movie over to watch together. 

(b) Send me a card on special holidays, his birthday, and the anniversary of his death, and be sure to mention his name. You can't make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach out on this difficult day. 

(c) Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I may say no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up then I really will be alone. 

(d) Understand how difficult it is for me to be surrounded by people who seem so happy, to walk into events as if my life is the way it was, to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable. 

Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely. Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes. 

Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my life. What I need now is time to grieve. Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience. 

Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding. 

And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be with you.

                Louis Armstrong - one of my dad's favorite musicians - playing "Blue Again"