A Push Towards Perspective

I recently came across something written by a woman that I found to be simultaneously heartbreaking and inspiring.  This article, which ran in Vogue magazine entitled "The Long Road Back: How to Keep Going After the Unimaginable Happens," is the story of tragedy - but it is even more about love and strength and coping.

I found some of the words of the author, whose name is Madonna Badger, to be particularly moving.  When she recounts the two things that happened that she found helpful as she was going through the boxes in the warehouse, it makes me think back to the students with whom I worked in the months after my dad died.  Like Badger, through my work, I saw two things occur that nudged me in the right direction in the early depths of my grief: I too had to stay "in the present moment," and I saw for the first time that, although there was often ample opportunity for the grief that was upon others around me to incapacitate them, the people who made certain choices in the midst of hardship were able to survive without losing more of themselves than they had been forced to through the adversity. That, I guess, was my push towards perspective.

Father's Day 2013

This one's not the first Father's Day I've spent with my dad, but it's hitting me hard anyway.  There is so much stress and turmoil going on in my life these days related to my job that I don't feel like I am in "top shape" when it comes to being prepared to cope with the grief that still so often catches me by surprise, either with its timing or its intensity or both.

I looked through some old pictures today and found so many of my dad doing things he loved to do, whether it was sitting in a lawn chair in the sun reading the paper, running, sitting on the beach, or spending time with his family.  In all of them, he looks happy and healthy and as if he is perfectly content, and for that I am so grateful, except for a song that keep playing in my head:

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THAT SONG ...

Today I found myself thinking about how on the day after my dad had died, I stood in the shower in the guest bathroom of my parents' house, crying and crying, feeling so much like my heart was breaking that I thought I needed to hold my hand over my chest to keep it together.  Never had I imagined - or even thought to imagine - that a day like that day was coming, or like the days like the ones I figured were still to come.  I had no idea how I was going to get through even that first day without my dad there physically with me, much less through the rest of my life.  I felt like I was falling down a well in slow motion, and I knew that at some point I would seriously need to reconsider my world view and, in essence, myself.

So many times, I've thought back to the last night that my dad was in the hospital and to the way that he insisted on having all the lights turned out and for Jennifer and me to be on either side of him as he tried and tried to sleep.  I remember how he reached out in the darkness to grab my hand and Jennifer's without even looking, and, recognizing the trust, the love, and the vulnerability in that move, I quietly started to cry there beside him in the dark; I was so grateful that he was so sure that we were right there with him.    

What I wouldn't give for just one more day with him.  I wouldn't even care what we did together; I just have so much to tell him and to talk to him about.  It's like I'm the one now reaching out into the dark to grab a hand to hold, and I'm so grateful that I have people who love me (and tolerate me) enough to serve that purpose, but it's still something that's so much tougher that I could have ever imagined.

Happy Father's Day to the man who was the perfect father for me.
I miss you and love you more than I can adequately express.

The Flow of Grief

Today is the 5th of the month, and, as on this day every month over the last 25 months, that date results in an exacerbation of grief for me, because it is the day of the month that my dad went on ahead.  

I wonder if the 5th of the month ever won't be like this, if it will ever just flow by like the rest of the days on the calendar, and I wonder if it will hurt even more when the realization hits me that it has somehow slipped by unnoticed.  

From the moment I opened my eyes this morning, I felt the grief a little heavier, like a blanket that's too thick for the temperature in the room.  I plodded through the morning routine and made it out the door on time, but then, on my drive to work, I saw a car exactly like my dad's, an army green Mini-Cooper with a customized bike rack on the top.  

In an instant, tears filled my eyes.  I felt like I'd been punched in the gut but weirdly also a little bit comforted; feeling that it was a sign from my dad, I felt both like I'd gained something in experiencing that connection with him and like I'd suffered a loss again with the thought that the only contact I can ever have with him is transcendent. 

The unpredictability of grief is something that gets to me time and time again.  I like patterns and predictability; I don't like surprises or disorder.  All along I've felt like I wanted, or actually needed, to know - how will this go?  What's the plan?  How long will it last?  When will I feel like I have a grip on this grief, if ever?  

In the beginning, I told myself I could take it, if I only had an idea of how long it would go on.  And if I had some kind of rules or guidelines for getting through it.  When I realized there was none of that type of knowledge or information to be had, I found that pretty much all I could do was to cry.  We all cried, to each other and alone.  We worried about each other and we worried about ourselves; we wondered if this was how things would always be, and we wondered if we would survive the hardest thing that any of us had ever gone through.

So far I've just been muddling through it.  And the change - and the order to it and the flow of it - that I've started to notice, one that has come about at some imperceptible point in time, is that I have started to be able to reflect on the road I had traveled, to see some ribbon of road behind me as I glance in the rearview mirror, even as I have continued to trek along the same route, and I have started to see some differences in myself and in my grief ... not "progress," really, but observations about the path I have traveled as part of this process. 

Maybe it's just familiarity with grief, almost a relaxed intimacy like a couple who has been together for awhile or like shoes that are worn in but not worn out.  Certainly part of it is a realization that there is no standard of excellence in this process, just getting through it, hopefully intact. 

                           "I pick up a stone that I cast to the sky, hoping for some kind of sign."

I can smile most of the time these days when I see a photo of my dad, and I can usually talk about him without the extreme sadness and devastation that used to bubble right up to the surface so quickly.  I can laugh at some of the inside jokes that he and I shared, even though I realize that I'm the only one left on the inside of those now; I can usually think about something that he should be here to experience or to participate in now and not fall apart.  I can go to sleep most nights without feeling like I need to beg into the dark for a good dream about him.  Much of the difficulty is still there, though; I think I've just gotten more adept at managing it.  

I used to be a lot more inflexible - maybe even close-minded or harsh - in my views about certain things before my dad got sick.  I must admit: I did the same thing about certain things before I had children of my own; I thought I had at least some of the answers, and then reality hit me and I realized that I didn't.  I spent a lot more time with the "my way or the highway" type of thinking going on in my head than I do now.  

There's a certain amount of perspective that growing up  gives to a person - some of it good, some maybe more realistic than good, but nonetheless having our views changed over time is just part of life.  It's almost kind of metaphysical the way perception can be divided up over the course of a lifetime: either you think you know, or you know you don't know. 

But then comes grief, and that's a game changer on an entirely different level.  I think for most people, grief softens the edges of what we worry about, of our priorities, and maybe even of our philosophy about things.  For me, going through the trial of my dad's illness and living with the grief that has come from his death has also blurred lots of things.  I'm less sure about certain things - many of which I have written about and will continue to write about - and that can be stressful, confusing, and exhausting.  But one thing that I think has actually been a change for the better in this process is the mitigation of my tendency to cast judgment on others in general; not only have my views on some things softened, but I guess so have I.  

Here's what I know for sure about grief: there is no "right way" to get through it.  Each person brings a different set of circumstances, different coping skills, and different needs to the situation.  We may share some of the same emotions and sometimes even thought patterns as we travel down the road, but, as we are all unique individuals, so is the exact nature of our mourning and our grief.

In the weeks and months after my dad went on ahead, my first instinct was to isolate myself.  I'm not sure why, exactly; there are probably a whole host of reasons that went into that propensity.

With the encouragement of my family, though, I tried to get out and do things socially, although, truth be told, I didn't really feel like leaving the house most of the time. 

Through phone calls and sporadic visits between the different places where we lived, my siblings and my mom and I all stuck together as much as we could, but at the same time we all did different things to keep ourselves together in the midst of the grief, to ward off the grief, to get through the days that were so much tougher to get through than I'd imagined.  Wait a minute, scratch that:  I actually never even took the time to imagine what life would be like without Dad, until we were without him.  I guess that, like Dad used to say about worrying being a waste of time, I felt that punching through the unbelieveability to picture the sadness, the absurdity of that life, even when he was so sick, was just too far out there to be a reasonable use of time for me - it would be like me thinking about jumping on the space shuttle and going to the moon right now.   

I recently looked back at something I wrote very early in my grief, a jotted-down Q and A with myself. I wrote, "How can I get through this, how can I go on, what can I do?  I will probably end up sleeping too much, drinking too much, not eating enough, walking around in a stony silence, and I hate all of those ideas."  For better or for worse, I actually missed the mark on all of those things.  A lot of time at work and around town, I felt like a fraud, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, as if I were the same. I felt lost, but I knew where I was and I knew I didn't want to accept it.  I didn't know where to even begin trying to figure out how to live without my dad or how to live with the sorrow. 

In the immediate aftermath, my mother, of course, was the one still at the house where Dad was supposed to be with her, with the most dramatic life change, and she was the one that we worried about the most.  Her form of coping initially seemed to come in the form of trying to re-organize her house; it was as if she was trying to gain some of the control that had been lost the moment we heard Dad's diagnosis.  In my corner of the world, I made a list of the things that angered me, in an effort to keep from exploding in my fury, and of questions to which I knew there were no answers.  I tried different things, many of which I've written about since.  One of these was my longtime balance: running, which failed me in that role; for the first time ever, running didn't feel right to me.  It wasn't physically therapeutic and it wasn't emotionally therapeutic; it felt more like I was trying to chase down the answers to an interminable stream of runaway questions.  It hurt, something I was used to and was well experienced in in the physical sense, but the pangs of emotions that flooded my mind and my body on these runs were difficult to bear. After awhile, I gave up on it, and only recently have I begun to try it again, intermittently, as it seems like the flow of the grief and the things that come along with it allow.

Looking Back

Sometimes I think back to the time when my dad was sick and I wonder how we made it through what we did.  Getting through those days - and the months of grief since he has gone on ahead - have definitely been the toughest thing I've ever had to do.  It's seemed insurmountable at times, and sometimes it still does.  I've learned a lot along the way about coping and perspective and life in general, though, and hopefully those lessons will continue to carry me through the rough waters of the ocean of grief in the time to come.  

When I look back now at the things I did to get through the weeks after Dad's diagnosis, some of it's a blur, but other parts are as clear as if they'd just happened yesterday.  Some of the memories bring a smile to my face; others make me feel like I've been punched in the gut or start a stream of tears that usually lasts the rest of the day.

One thing I remember is how I preferred to be asked how my dad was instead of how I was; I could give concrete information about his status and what was going on medically with him.  As far as how I was doing - what could I say?  The possible responses were just too overwhelming and confusing and sad.  If pressed, usually I just said, "I'm hanging in there," as if there were another option to that.

Another thing etched in my memory from the time after my dad's diagnosis is the amount of advice we got from so many different sources.  I guess people tend to feel compelled to offer advice to cancer patients and their families - and to those who are grieving.  We heard all kinds of advice - spiritual counsel, tips for dealing with chemo and lack of sleep, and so many more medical pointers from our well-meaning friends and some extended family members.  Most of it was welcome, though I must say that on some days I just wasn't in the mood to get that kind of input because I was too busy/too stressed/too sleep-deprived/too whatever to be receptive to much of anything.  So many times what we were being told were things that didn't apply to my dad or to his type of cancer.  Some days I just wanted to cry and others I just felt like beating someone up and cussing, but, really, with all that needed to be done and with the positive front that we were putting on for Dad's sake (and each others'), that wasn't really an option.

One thing I realized in the midst of all of the suggestions about coping with cancer - and later with grief - though, is that, even though I don’t believe that anyone else can really truly understand how I feel or what I have gone through because of the uniqueness of every situation and every relationship, the fact that other people seem to want to understand and make the effort to reach out is almost as good. 

Even having recently been in the seat of the person getting all of that advice, though, when I hear about someone who is going through something like what my family did, it's really tough for me to avoid giving out my own brand of advice.  I'm not sure why that is: it's certainly not that I think I'm an expert on cancer, or chemo, or grief, or ANYTHING; maybe it's because it's human nature to want to do SOMETHING to help in a crisis, and that seems helpful, despite the fact that I know it wasn't always to us.  Maybe because what happened to us was so devastating and awful that I want to do anything I can that might possibly somehow spare someone else from going through the same things.  

Finding positive stories about people with the same kind of cancer that my dad had helped me in the early stages of his illness; obviously, I thought that if SOMEBODY out there had outlived the prognosis of that diagnosis, that meant my Superhero Dad could, and I felt empowered by others' stories of strength and bravery.  I was trying to figure out what their SECRET to survival was so that I could replicate those conditions for my dad.  Early on, I saw this quote by one of the most highly respected neuro-oncologists in the country, Dr. Keith Black:

If you've recently learned that you have a brain tumor, keep this in mind: YOU ARE A STATISTIC OF ONE.  No two tumors are alike.  No one else shares your genetic makeup and your unique brain structure.  This doesn't mean that you have to face this journey alone.  It means that as you explore treatment options and "success rates" of various procedures, you cannot assume that the statistics that you encounter apply to you.

I clung to that quote like a shipwreck survivor to a piece of driftwood; besides the occasional pang of complete denial when the message of "This isn't really happening" flashed through my mind, Hope that all of the terrible statistics and the devastating prognosis wouldn't apply to my dad was all that got my family through each day.  As Dr. Henry Friedman, one of the big-time neuro-oncologists that I talked to at the Brain Tumor Center at Duke, said, "Hope provides the patient and their family the strength to continue to battle no matter how unfavorable the odds may appear to be."

From my current vantage point, I know that, in fact, you almost have to have that sense of hope as you round each corner when you have no sense of certainty about where the road will lead after such a shattering diagnosis.  Hope is really all that keeps you afloat some of the time - well, that and the love you feel for the person who is sick.

Another thing I did to buoy our Hope is to reach out for support and information through some online communities like Cancer Compass.  There I connected with some longterm GBM survivors, one with whom I emailed back and forth to get recommendations about the specific treatment protocol he was on, and the other of whom called me on the phone with words of encouragement that I later passed on to my dad and others in the family.  The second survivor, a woman about my dad's age, had been diagnosed almost 20 years before (!!!) and, although she had had to make some adjustments to her lifestyle because of some of the side effects of the treatment (mostly memory issues from the radiation to her brain), she said she was living a good life.  When she said she had taken up bird watching as a hobby to fill her days since she'd had to retire about midway through the years of on-again, off-again treatment she'd endured, and I swallowed the lump in my throat as I tried to picture my dad sitting on his back porch, watching birds all day.  We will adjust as needed, I told myself - all part of the Whatever It Takes attitude that I was so sure would carry us through.  I desperately wanted my dad to be one of the ones who made it through to the other side of the time frame we'd been given; I knew that he could be a powerful motivator and a dynamic speaker, and so I let myself dream a little that he would one day be in a position to help by telling his success story to others with such a devastating diagnosis.

I became almost consumed with statistics while my dad was sick as I worked to convince myself and other around me that Dad would beat the odds.  I knew that there were so many variables that affect "outcome" (what a harsh clinical term that is), but it seemed like Dad had most of the good ones on his side (except for excision of 95% or more of the tumor).  I guess when someone you love gets a terminal diagnosis, almost everyone grasps onto the hope that their person will be one to beat the odds.  It's what we have to do; it's human nature, I guess, to think that fighting and whatever else you've got in you will be the deciding factor instead of cold hard Fate. 

While my dad was sick, I literally couldn't sit still, whether I was physically with him or not.   The sound of silence, to me, sounded like a ticking time bomb, and the voices in my head carried on an endless litany of things To DO, things I guess I believed might help my dad, things I supposed might give me some sort of control over a situation that was spinning out of control, sometimes in slow motion but most of the time at a mindblowingly rapid rate.  During times when I had to sit still like when Dad was trying to sleep, I played Words With Friends on my phone, I wrote in the Notebook, I wrote long emails to the other "inside" family members who were also involved in Dad's care, and I updated the Care Page.  I couldn't watch TV - I was way to consumed.  I read A LOT, anything and everything I could find about GBM.  I took copious notes and made long lists of ideas and questions, mostly related to long-term survival, things that I thought we'd need to know on down the road to improve Dad's quality of life. 

One odd thing that I did at a few points during that time was laugh; it really was the embodiment of the expression, "Sometimes, you just gotta laugh."  It seemed to be so closely related to crying, which I did a lot of then too, although that was more challenging because I didn't want Dad to ever see me cry.  The hurt and the uncertainty was so present in those weeks that it seemed crazy, almost laughably out of control.  It was so tempting to start to feel unlucky, but then Dad would say or do something that would remind me of just how lucky we were in that moment, how it could always be worse, and how the only thing that we could really control at all was our perspective.

“Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.”  ― Charles R. Swindoll

Say WHAT???

During the ten weeks my dad was sick and in the months since he went on ahead, I have been touched by the people who have reached out to me in some way in an attempt to comfort me in my grief.  Before my own very personal loss, I really had no idea what to say or do when someone I knew was grieving.  I tried, but I’m sure now that I missed the mark in at least some cases.  I didn’t know, as I am sure some people with whom I have come into contact since my own loss also don’t.

Every loss, every person who is grieving, and every situation is different, and so the words and actions that may be appropriate in one case may not in another.  However, I have learned that in general there are some things that are often said in an effort to comfort someone that might truly be comforting, some that can be improved upon, and some that are really not so effective.  

Someone told me at one point while Dad was sick after I had commented about the way he kept asking for candy that she’d heard that sugar “feeds” cancer cells.  “Maybe it’s the cancer asking for the candy, not your dad,” she said.  Armchair medical advice, either during the illness or after the fact: not helpful. 

A couple of months after Dad died, someone I know implied that she’d known from the time he was diagnosed that he wouldn’t survive, and then she added, “I kept wanting to tell you, but you were so caught up in the whole thing.”  Nope, not helpful – in fact, if you feel the need to say something like this that belittles or second-guesses the hope and/or the decisions made while someone’s loved one was ill, you should seriously consider ducking for the punch that is very likely coming your way.

One of the things that completely pisses me off now is when someone who has heard about my dad’s battle with brain cancer and subsequent death and then feels the need to tell me other stories about people with cancer.  “My aunt’s best friend had cancer too, and she really had a hard time with the chemo before she got better,” someone actually said to me recently.  Um, no, you do NOT want to get into a contest with me about suffering or loss or anything else related, and it is not at all comforting to tell me that the person you know survived what my dad could not.  It's not that I can't stand to hear about someone else who has or has had cancer; I am very well aware that this horrible disease is out there and that much of what my family went through wasn't unique.  I just don't appreciate it when this kind of information is presented to me in such a way that it seems like a one-up pissing contest.  

I’ve heard the statement “I know just how you feel” at least several dozen times over the past 18 months or so, and, for the record, this is a claim that cannot possibly be true.  Hell, the majority of the time, even I don’t know exactly how I feel in regards to my loss (Lost? Angry? Sad? Scared? Scarred? And the list goes on and on!), so there is no way in hell someone else can know!  A statement like that seems condescending in a way, like my grief and my feelings aren’t that important or special; it doesn’t feel supportive, at least not to me.  

Any “at least” statements that may be on the tip of your tongue should be squelched immediately:  It is NEVER a good idea to say “At least you had many years together,” “At least he didn’t suffer for too long,” or “At least you got to say goodbye.”  Doing so minimizes the loss and makes it seem like the person who is grieving isn’t grateful enough.  Most grievers realize the fact that IT COULD ALMOST ALWAYS HAVE BEEN WORSE, but we are also deeply aware that things could’ve turned out better.  We need to feel what we feel, not to have our emotions second-guessed or judged, even in an implied fashion.

“Be strong” is another one that really gets to me, whether it is said to me or to someone else in an effort to comfort.  I keep wanting to say, “Why???”  I think it’s good NOT to be strong some of the time; I think that grief that isn’t let out WILL at some point become illness of some type.  When someone tells me to be strong, I feel like yet another burden or responsibility - one that I will not be able to live up to - has been thrust upon me, which, obviously, isn't helpful or comforting.

In my opinion, it’s also a good idea to tread lightly concerning issues of spirituality; it is not unusual for a person to question his or her belief system in the face of tragedy, and in some cases a message based on your convictions may not only not match up with the feelings of the bereaved but may actually invoke negative emotions, despite your intentions.  Here are some commonly used expressions and some examples of possible reactions to illustrate what I’m talking about:  

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” -- Um, WHAT??  So, following that logic, should we all be wishing to ALMOST be killed?  

“God may not give you what you want in life, but he will give you what you need." -- Did I NEED my loved one to suffer? To die?  

“People are only given what they are strong enough to handle.”  -- Does this mean if I were weaker my loved one would have survived?  Wow, talk about guilt and confusion!

Even the simple “It was God’s will” can be viewed as not that helpful or even dismissive and inflammatory; many people who have witnessed the suffering often involved in a terminal illness in particular may have trouble believing or accepting that their loved one’s pain and death were part of a plan.  Personally, when people have said, “He’s in a better place now” to me since my dad died, I still want to scream, “But he loved it here and I know he wanted to stay longer!”  Hearing this statement, I do NOT feel that my grief is being addressed; I feel like the person is implying that I should be glad my dad got sick and died.  Nope.  Not comforting, at least not to me.

Personally, I can only view statements like this as "bullshitty."

One thing often said to people who are grieving that I’ve mentioned before is “Time heals all wounds.”  I won’t get into my issues with that one again right now, but just suffice to say, nope, not helpful.  

These comments may serve to comfort some individuals, but they can also play a role in minimizing the loss and may even seem to suggest that the griever shouldn't be grieving.  This is not the time for a theological discussion or to try to convert someone over to your own beliefs.   In some cases, you may choose to follow the person’s lead in discussing religious beliefs, but, as I said, I suggest sensitivity and proceeding with extreme caution in any case.

Something that I learned during my dad’s illness is that, even as well-meaning as general offers for help likely are, saying things like “Let me know if you need anything” or “Keep me updated on his condition” are not really that helpful when the family is dealing with extreme stress and/or grief.  Statements like these actually put the burden on the person who is already overwhelmed with trying to cope with a crisis.  A concrete offer of help like “I’m going to the grocery store tomorrow and would love to pick up anything that’s on your list too” or an expression of concern that does not require a response on their part are much better.  During my time of need, a friend of mine text-messaged me daily to let me know she was thinking about me, and each time she added, “No need to respond,” which let me off the hook from having to thank her or to give her an update if I didn’t have time or the inclination to talk.   

Here’s one of the biggest blunders I’ve experienced in my own grief: having someone ignore my loss/pretend like it didn’t happen.  I think some people do this because they aren’t sure what to say, and in some cases they may think that bringing up the subject may upset the person who is grieving.  Take it from me: grief and loss are one huge elephant in the room; they may be able to be avoided, but they really cannot effectively be completely ignored.  In my opinion and experience, it’s better to say something that’s not perfectly phrased than to say nothing at all.  The person who is grieving is ALWAYS thinking about their loved one on some level, and it won’t make them sadder to have their loss acknowledged.  It very likely will, however, be upsetting or offensive to not have anything mentioned because the person will then feel like their loss has been forgotten or ignored or that you don't care about them or their loss. 

What’s MOST helpful if you knew the person who has died is to share a story or a memory about them.  In letting the person who is grieving know that their loved one left an impression on you if that is the case, you will let them know that their loss matters, that they are not alone, and that their loved one will live on in memories other than their own.

What should you say if you didn’t know the person who died or if you don’t have a story to share about their loved one? My recommendation is something empathetic, something that validates their loss, something that lets them know that they are not alone.  Any of these will work:

"You must miss him so much."

“I’ll always remember her ___ “ (laughing, smiling, helping others, etc.)

"I can't imagine how painful it must be to lose someone you love so much."

“I know she would be so proud of you.”

Or just the simple, “I’m sorry for your loss.”  

If nothing else comes to mind, it’s ok to say you don’t know what to say or that you will be thinking about them or something else non-specific like that.  It may not necessarily be original, but if it is something that is spoken with consideration and from the heart, it will serve its purpose.

The Duck and the Elephant

In one of the "Peanuts" comic strips, Lucy is in her "The Doctor is IN" booth and Charlie Brown says "Some days I'm up, and the next days I'm down."  Lucy replies, "Like an emotional roller coaster, huh?  Do you ever feel like you're on a roller coaster, Charlie Brown?" to which he responds, "How about bumper cars?"

I was recently talking to someone else who is grieving after the death of someone she loved, and the topic of support systems came up.  We discussed how we aren't sure how respond to questions like "How are you?" when we feel like we are expected to say "Fine."  She said on days when she is really not doing well that when she is asked that question she really, really just wants to say "Shitty - but thanks for asking."  

So often, especially here in the South, we tend to throw out questions or comments in a casual, just-in-passing way, oftentimes not even pausing to hear the other person's response.  It's a greeting, really, not a check-up on someone's physical or emotional health.  I used to think it was catchy and clever the way financial guru Dave Ramsey always responded "Better than I deserve" when a caller on his radio talk show asked him how he was, but now I think it's disingenuous and superficial.  Most of the time I don't even like to be asked that question because I feel like I am forced to be at least somewhat deceitful, pushed into discussing the weather or vacation plans when there is a giant elephant in the room.  So here it is:  I am like a duck, calm on the surface and paddling like hell underneath.  

I have learned that everyone experiences and copes with grief differently but that, even as different as situations causing the grief can be, we all need support as we are dealing with one of the most (or maybe THE most) difficult things we have ever faced.  It's hard to know what to say, I know, but actually it's not a situation that calls for advice or answers.  There are lots of resources out there about what to do to help support someone who has suffered a loss, like this info on the American Cancer Society's website:  http://www.cancer.org/Treatment/TreatmentsandSideEffects/EmotionalSideEffects/GriefandLoss/coping-with-the-loss-of-a-loved-one-helping-someone-who-is-grieving

Mostly, though, from my perspective, it's good for others to just check in, to let me talk about my dad, and to sometimes help me to think about something other than that elephant.  I've seen a picture of a "Support Wheel" with each spoke of the wheel representing one of the roles that a person can play in helping someone who is grieving, including serving as "Someone I can always count on," "Someone who makes me laugh," "Someone I can talk about my feelings with," and "Someone who will just listen."  All are very valuable and appreciated.  I am so very grateful for the people in my life right now who are helping me as I try to find my way.  They let me talk, vent, and cry, or sit on the periphery if that's all I can do at the time.  They seem to know that I need to know that people care, that those who knew my dad remember him, that I am not totally crazy even though I feel that way at times.  They let me put away the broom I sometimes use to sweep away the pain so I don't have to always hide what I am feeling.  Even if they aren't in the bumper car with me, they let me know that it's ok that I'm not "fine."

He manages like somebody carrying a box

that is too heavy, first with his arms

underneath.  When their strength gives out,

he moves the hands forward, hooking them

on the corners, pulling the weight against 

his chest.  He moves his thumbs slightly

when the fingers begin to tire, and it makes

different muscles take over.  Afterward,

he carries it on his shoulder, until the blood

drains out of the arm that is stretched up

to steady the box and the arm goes numb.  But now

the man can hold underneath again, so that

he can go on without ever putting the box down.

~from the poem "Michiko Dead" in the book The Great Fires, by Jack Gilbert

No Rhyme or Reason

In the time since my dad was diagnosed with the cancer that took his life only ten weeks later, one thing I've heard people say a lot is “Things happen for a reason.” I am sure I've even said this at some point, or at least I've acted like I agreed with it when it was said to me.  But after lots of thought on this idea, I would like to offer another perspective on this and about a few other things that are often said to people who are going to a rough time, dealing with a serious illness or other life-changing event, or have suffered a loss:

Maybe things don’t happen for a reason.  I find it unsettling when people seem to be saying that cancer, other serious illnesses or tragedies, death, or anything that has been a challenge has happened as part of some grand plan for something better.  I think saying that there was a reason behind such horror serves to shut down the questioning that naturally comes in bad situations ("Why me?" "What caused this?" and "WHY did this happen?").  That "Grand Plan" kind of thinking can also offer an easy-out in cases where people don't make the best choices and think everything will just WORK OUT, if it's MEANT TO BE.

What could possibly be a reason for really bad things to happen?  Is there some little secret plan behind someone's suffering, and is that supposed to make it "worth it" if so?  

I realize that this and similar statements are something that people say to try to help or to comfort those in need or maybe even to try to rationalize why such a terrible thing has happened, to show that there is purpose in suffering and hardship.  I also recognize that we all do what we have to do to get through the day. Sometimes this type of statement is a way of putting things in perspective, of showing one's personal beliefs, and/or of trying to create a silver lining.

But I personally don't think it's true, and I am not at all comforted by it.  I think things, good/bad/otherwise, just happen, and when they do, you have to decide how you are going to handle them.  Your responses, and those of others around you, can teach you lessons.  It's your attitude, your PERSPECTIVE, your outlook that can influence how you get through things that happen in your life.  You can grow, get stronger, and do something that you otherwise never would have. Alternatively, you might learn that you made a mistake and should deal with a situation differently the next time it comes up. 

I'm actually more comforted by thinking that everything is random. When a tragedy occurs, I don't think it's some big judgment, a punishment, or a test ... it's just the way things are. Good people have terrible things happen to them, drunk drivers walk away from car wrecks they caused while an innocent person is hurt, jerks win the lottery sometimes ... things just happen. 

The way I see things, there isn’t necessarily a purpose in suffering; it’s not part of a causal narrative that “passing the test” will get you to the next step. You make your own tests, you find your own lessons.  You'll learn from a challenging situation what you will choose to take away from it.

And what about "People are only given what they can handle;" "People get what they deserve;" "What comes around, goes around;" "Everything works out the best in the end;" "He was lucky he didn't suffer;" "It was just his time;" or even "I know exactly how you feel" and "Time heals all wounds"?

I refuse to feel like I  am being punished for bad decisions, warned of coming terrors, or living out some mystical plan.  I choose to acknowledge whatever control I have over what happens in my life and to view the glass as half-full, even when things don't go my way.  I won't assume the role of the victim. Yet I also don't think it will "work out better" that my dad had cancer than if he hadn't had it, for him or for me or for anyone else.  I think he was, and that my family and I are, lucky overall, in spite of the cancer and his death, not because of it or the trauma of it.  It absolutely was NOT my dad's time; he had lots of things that he still wanted to get done.  And although I will try to adapt to the changes in my life and I may get more practiced at coping without being able to have contact with one of the most important people in my life, I won't feel "better" or have my grief "healed," no matter how much time goes by. The tough things that have happened, just happened.  I appreciate the support of those around me and know that each person is trying in his or her own way to help as much as they know how.  I am doing everything I know how to do to move forward after such a terrible loss.  Because whether or not there is a Reason or a Plan, my goal is to deal with what has happened with as much courage, love, dignity, and grace as possible.