Memories and Exit Ramps

Traveling along the highway of life with a luggage rack loaded with grief, it often seems there are endless reasons and opportunities for taking an exit ramp, as situations and conversations bring forth memories from previous experiences related to pain and loss.  I try to keep my eyes focused only on the space illuminated by the headlights directly in front of me, but sometimes things on the side of the road or off in the distance catch my eye, and looking at and even following those sightings cannot be avoided. There are lots of things along the way that I didn't think I was going to have to face - some of which I hadn't even be aware before I'd traveled this very road - and, once I was and once I did, that we didn't think I was nearly strong enough to traverse. The triggers that force me to exit for pit stops can come from varying sources - reading about or hearing about someone else with a similar story, being asked for advice related to my own struggle, or even just watching others about whom I care go through a trial like my family has since the time when my dad got sick.

Interestingly, I think, at some of those exits are emotions that are strangely unlike those I felt while I was beginning my own journey down this rough part of the road, in this construction zone of sorts.  I remember the feelings of powerlessness, sadness, confusion, and anger from during that time, but, looking at it at this point through my "things may appear smaller than actual size" rearview mirror, especially if I am able to offer anything at all to someone else from this vantage point, makes me feel strong and useful, ... a Silver Lining I suppose, one that I hope translates into a benefit for someone other than just myself. 

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been slowed in the right-hand lane as I've watched my friend and her family bring her father to hospice care on Friday two weeks ago and then say goodbye to him on the following Wednesday, the exact time frame that my family had with my dad.  I remember how in my family's situation there was so much to do, an overwhelming amount of things in fact, and then there was nothing.  I know all too well the pain and the helplessness and the feelings of such utter loss and despair that they were feeling as they prepared for the funeral, and I remember how I thought things couldn't get any harder but then how in many ways it seemed like they did after I went home after the memorial service and found my job and other responsibilities waiting for me.  After my dad's illness and his death, it felt like the emptiness, the loneliness, and all the other emotions were something with which I didn't think I could cope or even survive, but somehow I found a way, as I know my friend and others in her family will too.

In addition to having the perspective from inside the rawness of the grief, I now have somewhat of an idea of what it felt like for those around me in those early days of peregrination; it feels like running in place or maybe like being on a scavenger hunt of sorts.  There is so little that can be done to ease the pain of those who have been forced to enter onto this highway; the best I can try to do is just to ease off the gas pedal in my own vehicle to let them merge into my lane, to give them a nod of acknowledgement, to let them know that they are not alone.

"There is a sacredness in tears" ~ Washington Irving

Living Strong

We've all heard the expression "Live Strong," especially in the context of fighting cancer. 

Since my dad's diagnosis, though, I've come to view the meaning of this command in a different light, and I see now that it’s not just for the people who have been diagnosed with cancer, but also for those who are caring for them - and even beyond that to those who are left behind to grieve.

By all accounts, my dad "lived strong" during the ten weeks he was battling for his life against the brutal brain cancer that took first his independence and shortly thereafter his life.  He literally fought with all his might until his very last breath.  

I've heard it said that people die as they have lived, and, in regards to being courageous and strong, definitely that was true for my dad.  And, as for my family, I think we've "lived strong" too, working as a team throughout his illness and since then.

In many ways, it's been the "since then" part of this whole thing that I've found to be much harder, but, to honor my dad and the rest of my family, "living strong" has been and continues to be my goal.  

Sometimes I worry that I'm not being strong enough now, though.  

When I was a teenager, I had a t-shirt that had big lettering at the top of it on the front that said "Trackster's Excuse Shirt." Underneath that were listed dozens of excuses that people often used not to run on any given day, things like, "I'm sore from yesterday's workout," "I think I'm coming down with a cold," "I had to work late," and even "It's too cold outside" and "It's too hot outside."  I loved that shirt, and I wore it often.  Dad and I used to make up additional excuses that we thought should also have been listed on the shirt and laugh; there were many days when I didn't especially feel like running but I did it anyway because the shirt helped me to realize that whatever excuse I had was just that - an excuse.  I remember the day I got braces on my teeth; when Dad got home from work that afternoon after I'd gotten home from the orthodontist, he told me to get my running gear on, and I protested, claiming my teeth were too sore to run.  "Oh, really?" Dad asked with a smile on his face. "Should we put that on the excuse shirt too?" Of course, I laughed and then suited up so we could head out the door to run as planned.

Lately I've been thinking that maybe I need a shirt like that, one that lists all the reasons excuses I so easily come up with these days for not running (or for anything else, for that matter): "I didn't sleep well last night;" "I miss my dad too much;" "I'm grieving;" "I'm too busy at work," etc.  

There's no good reason, only endless excuses, and yet I still can't seem to find the drive to do it anymore.  A few years ago my dad gave me a big magnet to put on the back of my car that says "Runner Girl."  I took it off my car more than a year ago; it just felt so disingenuous, and seeing it every time I walked around to the back of my car made me sad.  Sad that I wasn't running, sad that my dad couldn't be.

That's just one of the things that I used to do that I don't anymore, one of the changes that I don't know the reason behind and that I don't like.  I'm honestly not sure if I should grit my teeth and try harder to live strong or if I should just look at it as a temporary thing that I have to go through and go with it for now; I know that some of this is just part of the process - and that some of it is out of my control.

From the time when I was about 12 years old, I always volunteered to pack the car the night before we went on a family road trip.  I liked being the one who knew where everything we might need during the course of the trip was in the car, from a deck of cards to snacks to a box of tissues and a map. 

I think one of the hardest things about dealing with a terminal diagnosis and the grief after the death of a loved one is having the realization that there is no control to be had and that there is no getting prepared for some things in life.  In essence, there is no packing the car the night before in Real Life.

In grief, you spend a lot of time focusing on, well, you.  Grief tends to make us shut out other things at times, not out of self-centeredness but out of necessity.   It is a rough road, one riddled with obstacles, but one with learning and growing and - with time and effort and luck instead of excuses - living strong, to the best of our ability.  We just have to get through it, in our own way.

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"

Valuable Advice

Someone asked me recently what the best advice that I was given after my dad went on ahead was.  My answer involves words of wisdom that were imparted to me by three people:

The day after my dad died, one of my friends said, "Stay strong," which was a sentiment several others had also expressed to my family that day and during my dad's illness, but this friend added two more words that gave a whole new meaning: "... or don't."  I'm not sure that I fully grasped the meaning or the astuteness behind those words that day, but since then I have come to understand and appreciate the message more than I can adequately express.  From my perspective, the directive "Stay strong" is given out way too often to people who are going through a difficult time.  These days, when I hear that said to someone, I want to ask the person who says those words, "Why?  What is the point?  And, really, what other choice is there?"  Like the meaning behind the words my friend said to me on one of the hardest days of my life, in my opinion, it's ok not to feel that you have to be strong when things are tough.  That's why you have friends, faith, or whatever else gets you through it.  Sometimes being told to "be strong" can put an undue burden on a person, sometimes it sets a goal that is unattainable, and sometimes it sends a message (albeit inadvertent) that the only thing those around the person want to see is him or her, being "strong."  Sometimes it feels better to fall apart for awhile in the midst of tragedy; sometimes doing so enables a person to regroup and to power on.  In any case, I much prefer my friend's message: "Stay strong, or don't!"

I still think about that advice regularly, and when I see or hear things like THIS ...

... it makes me want to respond by saying, "You can do both: you can smile and cry, hurt that he's gone and be happy that he was here at all, feel pain and sorrow and still cherish his memory.  You don't have to choose just one or the other."

The second piece of advice that I found most helpful was given more as a piece of information than advice, and it was actually said to me by two different people at two different times; the first person said it to me just after my dad had been diagnosed with cancer.  She had been through a cancer diagnosis and treatment with one of her parents and wanted to share her observation about how she and the other adult children in her family had handled things in distinct ways.  I thought back to her words many times while Dad was sick, not just in relation to how differently my siblings and I were trying to cope but to how every person in the family had his or her own role in helping and his or her own way of getting through to the next day.

After Dad went on ahead, the grief counselor that I went to had me do an exercise in which I was to draw a flower with petals on it and then write on each petal a different role that various people were playing to help me get through the grief process.  She gave an example of "This person listens when I talk about my dad," "This person takes some of the work load off me by doing chores I don't feel up to doing," and "This person lets me cry without asking me what's wrong."  Writing it out helped to remind me that people around me cared and were trying to help in their own way and that no one way was "better" than another.