#and she died so suddenly that there was no anticipatory grief

[bedcorpse]

i think this is the saddest i’ve ever been

[katefromoveryonder]

Anticipatory grief

I just learned the name of it.

My husband died on October 28, 2021, but that is not when my grieving began. Two days before, on October 26th, I was standing at my stove in the kitchen and I suddenly felt weak, scared, and overcome with grief.

This is highly unusual -- I'm not that person given to bouts of depression or crying, though 2021 saw me crying more than usual -- at odd times for "no reason" long before my husband died.

On October 26th, I was so overcome with grief that I had to lay down before I fell down. I made it to our bed and lay down and curled up and it wasn't long before he found me. I had no words, so he didn't keep asking, just put his arms around me.

Eventually, I came out of it and we started talking and we talked for a very long time, about our life and all the adventures we'd had, the places we'd been and people we knew. We mainly visited the good times, but acknowledged, as well that even our bad times were good times.

That night about midway till morning, he woke up and could not sleep. He said he felt like he was choking in his sleep. Wide awake now, he wished for coffee and I told him to turn the pot on. I always set the coffee pot before we went to bed. I got up to reset it and we sat together in the living room and he talked about all his worries. He made a joke about it. A long-standing joke was when someone talked about their troubles too much, he'd say, "Don't want to worry you, but my grandma got like that just before she died." He made this joke about himself that night.

On the day before he died, he was feeling great. We worked on the house, making some repairs that needed done before winter. I suddenly wanted to get the house cleaned up. I kept thinking, I have to make this place as nice as I can for him. It's all new territory. I had no idea what I meant by that or why I thought that.

That evening, he wanted to go out to dinner. He said, "I just feel like celebrating." Like me, he felt that we were in new territory. We both thought it was good territory, though -- no inkling it meant something else.

[treenahasthaal]

Hi! For the director’s cut thing: “Pinned, belly down, Luke watched his breath ghost against the polished marble of the floor” to “He stared up at Vader and smiled as oblivion took him.” for chapter 16 of Dark Times? (Sorry if someone’s already asked it!)

My sincere apologies for not replying sooner. Life has been hectic and I’ve had to work ridiculous hours with not many days off. Also, this is a helluva difficult scene to talk about! 

Wow... 

Okay, a few things. My husband died, very suddenly and completely unexpectedly, on our 14th Wedding anniversary, 26th September 2011. He walked to the local store for a few items and collapsed and died on the sidewalk. I was called and rushed round. He took his last breath as I reached him. I started CPR... 

What followed was the most difficult time of my life - and I’ve had few heart breaks before and since, but nothing compares to that day and the following weeks and years. 

I had a severe writers block from about 1995 to 2005 and in 2011 I was still writing. 

Dark Times was initially started in 2004. (I think) I am not a quick writer. Never have been - I sweat over every word. 

After losing David I was left to bring up our kids alone and I had (still have) a very intense, emotionally draining, pretty fraught, career. 

I turned to my writing and poured every ounce of my grief into my stories. They became darker than ever. 

Born In Fire and Blood is an example of how dark.

Dark Times: Absolute was written during my grieving period (I’m still grieving) and I poured every ounce of feeling I had into that chapter of the story. I vividly remember sitting down to write that court scene (the appeal for innocence) and looking at the page thinking “I can’t do this,” That gave me the mind set for Luke.  The “I can’t do this...” with the “too bad, buddy, you have no choice.”  

That became my mantra of sort, for my own life, not just for Luke. I don’t want to attend his funeral - too bad, you have no choice.

I don’t want to get out of bed - too bad, you have kids, you have no choice.

I don’t want to work anymore - too bad, you have kids, you have no choice. 

The “stay up, stay up, stay up,” that was going through Luke’s head was also with me - I’ve gone through hell at work and I have had to stay up and stay standing for my principles. (I am the only female manager, managing a bunch of guys - yep, I don’t need to say much more, do I?).

Absolute is probably the most personal thing I have every written. It exhausted me emotionally. That court scene in particular was agony to write, I really didn’t want to write it, and yet I feel it is probably some of the best writing I have ever done.

However, you don’t want to know about that scene - you want to know about what follows. 

In comparison to the court scene this scene was easier to write, but I was very nervous about it. I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. I sometimes write without much of a plan and I just go with the flow and follow where the characters take me. Somehow we ended up with Luke bleeding out in snow fall being held by his father. 

This is hard! :D 

Lying on the floor, Luke is terribly afraid here, trying to keep it together. Not only is he back in Imperial custody, but he’s terrified for Leia and Han. He’s barely holding it together and here again (a theme in Dark Times) he thinks of his aunt. He is again, reminded of his childhood on Tatooine and the one constant person who never berated him, who gave him time, and solace and care. His main caregiver - Aunt Beru. 

Beru, a firm, solid attachment. :P 

Her memory is a grounding for him, so it was important to keep that in there. Of course, the Force has a role in this. 

And then, there is change within the hall way as they wait, a feeling of a shift within the Force and “hey,” things aren’t quite so bleak. 

I believe I was listening to Marillion at the time (When Fish was still their lead singer - he rocks! They were never the same after they split with him) and these lyrics were very important as I wrote:

“You’d resigned yourself to die a broken rebel, but that was looking backward, now you’ve found the light.”

“Childhoods End - Marillion.”

Luke learned Leia was safe and boy, is he buoyed to have one over on Vader. It really gives him a boost - what he doesn’t realise is how twisted his happiness is. He doesn’t realise how dark he is already becoming. I mean how could he really without any teaching?  

He’s almost... almost... giddy that Leia and Han got out, because he can do this now. He can go (as though he had a choice) with Vader and they can do what they want with him; his friends are all okay. 

He has a new found confidence and can really talk back to Vader and he knows, he feels, that with a battle coming up that he can feel a victory ahead. He might not know what it will be, but he knows... feels... that it’s there somehow - even if that victory is dying in interrogation without telling Vader anything (which he kinda doubts).

Of course the confidence slips when reality crashes in when he’s taken on the walk toward the shuttle. 

I wanted this walk to be anticipatory. Like a condemned prisoner being lead to the gallows, which in a way Luke was. Or a bride being escorted down the aisle. A line of troopers either side, lights shining, the dark shuttle (the alter?) waiting with the ramp lowering. The crunch of snow beneath feet as more flakes fell (confetti?) 

I wanted the reader to think, oh well that’s it, Luke’s getting taken and we’ll have more of the same. But I wanted to put some doubt there that maybe something else was going to happen. So, yeah, I wanted to build anticipation. 

Did it work? I don’t know! You tell me! 

I wanted Luke to start losing that little bit of confidence. I wanted him on the edge again, his conflict, his absolute terror to start seeping through. On the edge of mental collapse as he has so often been throughout the story. 

(wee side note here. First Minister Teraten was based on the then First Minister of Scotland. I like the man’s policies and beliefs in an Independent Scotland, but I personally don’t like the man himself) 

At the end of corridor of soldiers, the aisle, is Thecla and of course Luke knows why she is there. And, I’m not sure if anyone notices, but Luke echoes Palpatine. Echoes what Palpatine told Thecla at the start of Absolute:Chapter 8 because of course Thecla was the holograph figure he spoke, too. 

“Do it.” 

(A phrase that has become a meme since!)

And Thecla does it.

And of course Anakin panics. That’s his boy that’s just been shot! This, this, is the really the first time that Anakin reacts... not just Vader with a wee bit of Anakin Skywalker thrown in for good measure. 

This whole end scene was pure Anakin. In agony. And he lets it slip without truly meaning to.

“Stay with me, my son.” 

He’s tender, desperately so, gently wiping away the blood that keeps dribbling from Luke’s mouth. All Anakin.

Luke is dying. He knows he’s dying. He asked to die and.... 

What? 

What?

Son? 

My son?

Again his aunt, memories of his aunt, of the vision that has arisen since he hung helpless on the end of that corded durasteel line. Home... It all rattles through him (life flashing before his eyes type thing) and understanding swiftly follows.

This is his victory over Vader. 

You know what, dad? 

I win!

The scene exhausted me in a different way to the court case. This scene killed me and I wept writing it.  Not just because I killed Luke Skywalker, and he died in the arms of his father, but because I had been Anakin and my husband had been Luke. I cradled my David, I begged him not to leave me, to stay - and being the mother of two kids I can imagine the pain of losing a child (I’ve had plenty of nightmares about it). 

So.. @spell-cleaver I hope I have fully answered the ask and again my apologies for not answering sooner. And it gives me the excuse to use this beautiful art work from @sskywallker again. 

[momentsbeforemass]

Using these days well

(by request, my homily from Sunday)

I’ve been teaching online for years.

So when a friend of mine suddenly had to switch her classes to online – like every teacher, (grade school, high school, or college) has had to do in the last few weeks – she peppered me with all kinds of questions.

I was glad to help. Because teaching online is different in many ways from a traditional classroom. And not just because of all the tech stuff.

For me, one of the biggest issues I’ve had to learn to deal with is not being able to see people’s faces. To not be able to see that reaction. The one that tells me, “uh oh, I just lost them. I better stop and find out what’s not working.”

After all the nuts and bolts stuff, she asked me, “how do you stay productive?”

We talked for a bit about the have-to’s. The basic project management stuff that’s absolutely vital when working on your own.

When we got off the phone, her question stayed with me. And I had to admit that for the last couple of weeks, I really hadn’t been all that productive. It’s been more like pushing a rope.

How come? I’ve been doing this for almost 20 years. I should have this down. Yet, somehow, I don’t. Not right now anyway.

And then it hit me. I’m grieving.

Not because anyone from our parish, or anyone else I know has died from Covid-19. Or has even contracted it. Thanks be to God.

I’m grieving, because of what I’ve lost to Covid-19. Like we all are.  We’re all grieving losses caused by the virus.

For some of us, it’s the loss of hours at work. Maybe even the loss of a job.

For all of us, it’s loss of our normal. Big stuff and little stuff alike.

Weddings, first communions, confirmations, RCIA. All of it on hold.

Graduations, vacation plans, even the opening day of baseball. All of it up in the air.

Whether it’s our morning routine. What we do for lunch. Where we work. Everything we always do. Especially the stuff that keeps us connected.

Much of it, maybe most of it, without really thinking about it. And now?

It’s not the same. Some of it has changed. Some of it’s just gone.

All of us have lost our normal. And it’s hitting us. All of us.

We’re not used to that. We’re used to either knowing someone who is grieving, and being able to help them. Or being the one who is grieving, and being helped by others.

Not this time. This has hit all of us. We’re all the ones who are grieving. And we are not used to grieving this way.

There’s one more thing that makes it different.  

When someone dies, we know what we’ve lost. When my grandmother died, I knew there would be no more cards from her with family history notes in them. No more lunches with her when she came to town to go to her specialist. I could make a list, and I knew what was on it.

What’s different about this one is the uncertainty. This is anticipatory grief.

We know that this is temporary. But what we don’t know is what it will be like. How long it will take. Or how things will be on the other side.

We don’t know what will make it through, and what won’t. We don’t know who will make it through, and who won’t.

That uncertainty is part of our grief as well.

Maybe you haven’t really thought about any of this. I hadn’t until recently. But whether we’ve consciously thought about it or not, you and I are processing this on one level or another. And we’re all at different places in grieving the loss of our normal.

I’m thinking of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s classic model, her five stages of grief.

There’s denial – this isn’t going to affect me. There’s anger – you can’t keep me cooped up like this, telling me what I can’t do. There’s bargaining – if I work from home, wash my hands, and isolate, everything will be back to normal in two weeks, right? There’s depression – there’s no end to this, it’s just going to keep getting worse and worse. And then there’s acceptance – this is happening, how do I deal with it?

Now, that’s not a road map. None of us go through those stages in order. Or even just once per stage. For most of us, we go through those stages like an old-school pinball machine. We’re just not us right now, at least not with any consistency.

One moment we’re sad, the next moment we’re angry. One moment we’re okay, the next we’re a mess.

Just like in the Gospel with Martha and Maru. With the death of their brother Lazarus, the ever-present, always cheerful Mary? She’s just sitting there. By herself. And the always practical Martha? She’s not doing anything useful.

It’s okay to be that way right now. It’s okay to not know how to feel about all of this. It’s okay to grieve.

In fact, the only thing that’s not okay? To not grieve.

Give yourself some slack to work through this. Take the time to grieve, to grieve all the losses.

Notice what Jesus did when he found Mary and Martha grieving? He gave them space to grieve. He didn’t tell them to snap out of it.

But He didn’t leave them there, either.

Just like the season that we’re going through, grief is something that you go through. Go through it. Don’t try to avoid it. That only makes it worse.

But don’t move in and buy furniture either. As Churchill said, “when you’re going through Hell, keep going.”

But do more than just go through it. These days are upon us, not simply as something that must be endured. No, these days are something that we must use, and use well. Do not waste these difficult days.

Pope Francis calls these days “a time of choosing.” And he is right.

With everything on hold, now is the time for us to choose. Not simply how we will get through this. But what we want to our lives to be – now and when it’s over.

As our Holy Father put it, this is “a time to choose what matters and what passes away, a time to separate what is necessary from what is not. It is a time to get our lives back on track with regard to you, Lord.”

You and I can deal with the uncertainty by choosing what matters. What really matters. By becoming who God made us to be. Not just while we’re going through this. But on the other side of this as well.

It begins now. And it begins with a choice.

Just because you and I have carried something this far, doesn’t mean that we have to keep carrying it.

If we are to use these difficult days well, then there are some things that we need to drop.

You know what they are. Don’t wait to see what happens with them, to see if they make it through. Drop them now.

Everything that’s come between you and God? That’s what I’m talking about. Drop it now.

What if you just can’t? What if you’ve been carrying it for so long that you don’t know how to let go?

No matter what has come between you and God. No matter what you’re carrying. Or how long you’ve been carrying it.

All you have to do is turn to God. And ask.

Ask for the help you need. The help to drop it now.

When you do, God will say to the angels, “Untie him and let him go. Untie her and let her go.”

Don’t waste these difficult days. Don’t waste another day, trying to do it on your own.

Use these days well. Go to God now. He’s waiting for you with open arms.

To set you free. And to be with you – every step of the way.

Sunday’s Readings

[parsnipwike]

ANTICIPATORY GRIEF

This may be a long post (so I hope you’re sitting comfortably!) as I try and explain what I’m going through, which doesn’t fit your typical grief journey. . But I’m hoping if I open up about it others may think ‘ah that’s what I feel/felt’ and not feel so alone.

Four years ago I met Parsnip, fell in love, sold all of my tweed and bought a pony. She is my entire world, my reason for getting up in the morning, why I go to work (man are they expensive!!) she is my therapy, my escape, my best friend and my soul pony.

I always knew that if she passed away I would find it difficult, but she’s only young and we hopefully have a good 20 years left together if all goes smoothly. But last year was a huge wake up call, we thought there was a deadly horse disease on our yard and it was a pony that had shared the same field as Parsnip that was being tested. The realisation hit me hard that if Parsnip had caught it she would have to be put to sleep and I couldn’t cope with that.

My brain went into over drive, I didn’t want to live if she died, I had everything planned out. How I would go. The tests came back and thankfully it wasn’t what we had all thought, everything went back to normality. Apart from my head space. I kept thinking about how I wouldn’t cope if she died suddenly. I didn’t know who to talk to and I became really low and reclused. I struggled.

A month ago my Manager pulled me to one side and asked me how I was doing as she was worried about me. I broke down and said I wasn’t coping at all. She suggested I phone our Employee Assistance Program and talk to someone.

I’m so glad I did. I wasn’t expecting a real human to answer, but he did and he listened. I told him about Parsnip and my anticipatory grief, not wanting to be here if she died suddenly, about missing my Grandad who passed away with Motor Neurone Disease 5 years ago. At age 15 how I watched someone run over my puppy and pop her head whilst I was riding my horse Silver, he didn’t see me, my horse, or my dog on the road. The trauma that followed from that horrific day.

He referred me for 6 free therapy sessions with a trained counsellor to talk through it all and I’m so thankful that he did.

I’ve started my journey of talking about how anticipatory grief makes me feel, looking at where it stems from and ways to cope if I suddenly lost Parsnip unexpectedly. It’s scary, emotionally draining and at times really lonely, but I really want to make this a positive journey and if I can help anyone else on the way, that would make me happy too. Here is to the start of my blogs, I hope you get something out of them and if you need someone to talk to I’m only a message away.

If you want a laugh, check out our Instagram for pony selfies. #ParsnipWike

Liv

[outofallsorts]

grief / before & after

i’m someone unfortunate enough to have lived a life filled with grief. 

everyone experiences loss, so i’m not asking for your sympathies or your well wishes or your head tilts while asking how i’m doing, i don’t think of myself as someone who is better versed in the process of grief just because i’ve experienced a lot of it, nor do i think that anyone else’s grief is invalid because i’ve suffered it so much, and suffer from it to this day. 

when my mum died a couple of years ago, i didn’t think i was grieving in the right way, or even grieving enough considering my mother was one of my closest friends and biggest champions. i'd watched her struggle with her rehabilitation exercises or weekly doses of chemotherapy, i’d seen first hand the detrimental effects that cancer has on someone. in the quiet moments, i’d wondered how i would handle it, whether i would handle it. 

i had tried to picture the moments in life where my mother wouldn’t be there - buying my first home, my wedding day, my children being born and growing up, my first promotion. i’d well up every time. because i didn’t want to imagine those moments without my mother present. 

whenever i’d pictured those times in the past, before my mother’s diagnosis, she had always been there. 

she would be crying on the front row, her lips pierced together in a quivering line as she tried to smile and keep a straight face but ultimately fail and end up with mascara running down her cheeks.

she would be bouncing baby max on her knee and smiling as he laughed. she would be the doting grandmother who would buy him sweets and take him to the park and play games with him. 

it’s an unfamiliar feeling, a constant unfamiliarity, knowing that she won’t be here physically for these moments. she won’t share in the joy or the laughter. she won’t be here for me to cry to on my darkest days. 

in my grief, in my world-shattering heartbreak of losing my mother so young and in the prime of our relationship, i became familiar with some of the stages of grief. 

denial.

i remember the moment i found out that my mother had passed. i was in the kitchen of my father’s home (they had separated a couple of years prior) and i was washing up after we’d just had dinner. my dad came through and asked me to join the rest of them in the living room, which i did, with the knot building in my stomach. i sat down on the sofa, i can’t remember who i was sat next to, but my dad sat on the footstool in front of me and my siblings. he told us he’d just received a call from our grandad, who had in turn received a call from my step-dad, to tell us that our mum had passed away in hospice. she’d only been there for a few days and a week prior to her passing, my sister and i had been there taking care of her. i didn’t understand it, because she looked well when we left. her strength was slowly returning, her skin looked less grey, her smile seemed more genuine. after that, after hearing the awful news that my mother had died, i sunk. i cried and cried, and kept saying ‘no’ over and over again in the hopes that i was just having a really bad dream and would soon wake up from it. we all sat and cried for hours. i went upstairs to my room and hid myself away and cried a while longer.

anger.

before my mother died, i went to church. in the year or so of knowing my mother’s diagnosis, i had been told by hundreds of christians that god was going to heal my mother, and i held onto that as i had nothing else to hold on to. i believed the words that people had said, that my mother would be healed. and then on the 5th april 2018, she died. i was confused and hurt and angry, and i felt betrayed, by god and by the people who told me she would be healed. i still am angry about my mother dying, and it infuriates me when people tell me i need to let go of my anger, because i’m well aware of that fact, but however long i work through my anger for my loss is mine and mine alone, and nobody else can judge when is a good time for me to move on. 

depression.

i’ve struggled with depression for a large part of my life, and have taken medication and been to therapy sessions for it. if you know me, you’ll know how depression is an ongoing battle for me, and will no doubt be something i will have to deal with for the foreseeable future. what surprised me though, is that my depression didn’t feel massively different after my mum had died. it felt different for sure, it felt heavier to carry and harder to deal with, but it didn’t feel as i thought it would. i didn’t understand why i was having moments where i wasn’t crying or why i was able to talk a couple of hours after hearing the news. i felt like i was dealing with my grief wrong, maybe i wasn’t grieving enough?

i’m well versed with grief, but i’d never experienced it like this.

i did some research and i tried to figure out why i wasn’t grieving my mother in the way that i thought i should. and i discovered something called ‘anticipatory grief’ and upon reading about it, i knew i had been through anticipatory grief. 

“anticipatory grief refers to a feeling of grief occurring before an impending loss. typically, the impending loss is the death of someone close due to an illness”

in the dread of accompanying my mother to chemotherapy.

in the heartache of watching her shave her thinning hair. 

in the aftermath of cleaning up her sick.

in the clenched smiles upon first seeing her grey skin.

in the tears as i apologised for how badly i’d treated her in the past.

in the nightly routines of getting her sunny d and warming up her hottie.

in the early morning hours of her nudging me awake to help her to the toilet.

in the slow walks around the block, holding her hand to keep her steady.

it was in those moments that i’d silently, and unknowingly, been anticipating the loss long before it had actually happened.

at first i felt like it was wrong for me to have done that, even though i didn’t know that i was doing it until after my mum had gained her wings. but i’ve learnt that it’s common in a loss like mine. grieving isn’t just related to death. you can grieve the moments you once shared with someone, the shopping trips or walks or tragic attempts at jogging. you can grieve moments. you can grieve a loss of something for someone else. for example, my mother was incredibly colourful with her hair, so watching her have to shave it off because of how thin it was, was heart-breaking for me. something she once loved to change and style, was suddenly taken from her, and it was normal for me to grieve that painful change for her. i’d watched her independence quickly fade away, and a woman who was once so fiercely independent now had to ask her two oldest daughters to help her on and off the toilet. 

grieving someone else’s loss is normal.

anticipatory grief is normal. 

so don’t be startled or concerned if you don’t feel like you’re grieving a loss in the correct way. you are grieving in your own way, and that’s fine.  

[bdsawatsky]

This past week, Scott Berinato wrote a timely article in the Harvard Business Review entitled, That Discomfort You’re Feeling Is Grief. He explains how some of the HBR edit staff met online the other day (as so many of us are now doing). Before getting into the day’s business, the faces on the screen took the time to ask how everyone was feeling. As Berinato describes it, “One colleague mentioned that what she felt was grief. Heads nodded in all the panes.” The team decided now was as good a time as ever to take a deeper dive into the topic.

They turned to David Kessler, the world’s leading expert on grief, who co-authored On Grief and Grieving: Finding the Meaning of Grief Through the Five Stages of Loss. Kessler is also the founder of www.grief.comwhich has over 5 million visits yearly from 167 countries. His experiences have taken him from Auschwitz concentration camp to Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying Destitute in Calcutta, and his volunteer work includes serving as a member of the Red Cross Mental Health Disaster Team and as a Specialist Reserve Officer on the trauma team of the Los Angeles Police Department.

Kessler’s personal experience with grief is what prompted his professional journey. When he was a child, he witnessed a mass shooting while his mother was dying in hospital. In 2016, his youngest son died suddenly at 21 years old. In light of our common explanations for grief, the HBR staff asked Kessler if it was fair to label what many are feeling right now during this COVID-19 crisis as “grief”. Kessler was unequivocal in his response:

Yes, and we’re feeling a number of different griefs. We feel the world has changed, and it has. We know this is temporary, but it doesn’t feel that way, and we realize things will be different. Just as going to the airport is forever different from how it was before 9/11, things will change and this is the point at which they changed. The loss of normalcy; the fear of economic toll; the loss of connection. This is hitting us and we’re grieving. Collectively. We are not used to this kind of collective grief in the air.

I appreciate how Kessler highlights the need to honestly grieve the things that we have lost during this time. The pain is real and shouldn’t be ignored. He then goes on to talk about a special kind of grief he calls “anticipatory grief”. The term piqued my curiosity.

Anticipatory grief is that feeling we get about what the future holds when we’re uncertain. Usually it centers on death. We feel it when someone gets a dire diagnosis or when we have the normal thought that we’ll lose a parent someday. Anticipatory grief is also more broadly imagined futures. There is a storm coming. There’s something bad out there. With a virus, this kind of grief is so confusing for people. Our primitive mind knows something bad is happening, but you can’t see it. This breaks our sense of safety. We’re feeling that loss of safety.

Kessler demonstrates great insight into what is currently happening—what many of us are actually doing during this pandemic: grieving losses that haven’t yet happened. We suspect that they could happen, and so our minds, almost in an attempt to lessen the blow should our worst fears come true, put us on alert. Awareness of the possible dangers ahead is useful and can inform us how to act in face of threats like COVID-19, but I had to ask myself, Isn’t going so far as grieving future losses the same thing that Jesus called worry? I kept reading, and sure enough, Kessler makes that connection…

Unhealthy anticipatory grief is really anxiety, and that’s the feeling you’re talking about. Our mind begins to show us images. My parents getting sick. We see the worst scenarios.

It’s no wonder Jesus taught us to banish worry from our lives. Our minds and bodies were not meant to bear the burdens of days, months and years in the future. I’ve always thought of worry as interest we pay on money that we don’t even owe. It makes no sense! And we’ve all heard that unsubstantiated (but likely true) statistic that something like 95% of the things we worry about never come true anyway.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. (Jesus, Matthew 6:34)

Jesus knew that worry (a.k.a. anticipatory grief) breaks down our faith. It makes us question our security and doubt God’s promises. As Christians, we often differentiate between the faith that a person exercises to become a follower of Jesus with the faith that we exercise on a day-to-day basis, but faith is faith. Whether we are trusting God for the destiny of our eternal souls or to provide the money we need to buy groceries, it can all be reduced to the same two questions: Do we believe Jesus is who he says he is, and do we believe that he will do what he says?

As we get into the Easter season, we will surely hear the story of doubting Thomas, that disciple of Christ who needed to see the scars in Jesus’ hands and feet before he would believe that he had indeed resurrected from the dead. I can almost hear the seeker-friendly preachers across North America telling their listeners (whether in a physical or virtual services) that God accepts our doubts. It has become a popular mantra in today’s most welcoming churches, and I certainly appreciate the sentiment behind the statement. We need to bring our doubts to Jesus, knowing that he welcomes us no matter what. But we have to be careful about creating an expectation that people should become comfortable just hanging out with the people of God as they wallow in their doubts. Jesus accepts us with our doubts, but we must be clear (as Jesus was clear) that he expects us to dispose of our doubts. Repeatedly in the gospels we see him exhorting his friends in this way.

“Lord, if it’s you,” Peter replied, “tell me to come to you on the water.”

“Come,” he said.

Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!”

Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?”  (Matthew 14:28-31)

These doubts continued even after Jesus rose from the dead…

When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. (Matthew 28:17)

In Matthew 14 and 28, Matthew uses the word distazo for doubt, a word that literally means “double standing” and invokes the image of someone not sure of which foot to stand on. When I learned French, I discovered that indecisiveness is often called être assis entre deux chaises—sitting between two chairs. It’s the same idea. Jesus wants us to make up our minds as to where we are placing the weight of our faith.

In another post-resurrection appearance to his disciples, Luke records…

He said to them, "Why are you troubled, and why do doubts rise in your minds? (Luke 24:38)

Luke used the term dialogismoi for doubt. The word gives the idea of an internal dialogue that happens inside of us when we question Jesus’ claims. But I want to draw attention to the word John uses in his gospel when he records his account of Thomas.

Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe.” (John 20:27)

John, often called the Evangelist, wrote his entire gospel “that we may believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God.” As the disciple closest to Jesus, he understood Jesus’ resolve to see his followers leave doubt in the dust, and so he chose the most powerful word for doubt we see anywhere in the gospels. His word for doubt is apistos, and it actually refers to the character of the individual, not the action of doubting. His final statement to Thomas is literally translated kai me ginou apistos alla pistos: “Stop being an unbeliever, but a believer!”

Jesus said that the person who doubted was essentially an unbeliever. He didn’t differentiate between absolute belief and in-this-moment belief; to him it was all the same. Either we trust him all of the time, or we don’t.

Now, those of us who have committed to following Christ understand that this is a constant struggle, and we don’t live in fear of Christ’s rejection. But we relate to the brokenness of the father of the demon-possessed child in Mark chapter 9 who cried, “Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” The bottom line is that Jesus expects us to try. It doesn’t matter if we call it a resistance to the gospel, worry, or anticipatory grief—it is all contrary to exercising faith. Faith is not a feeling; it is a determination to walk in a chosen path.

So, whether you’re stressed right now about your finances or health, or just bending under the weight of the unknowable, act in faith. Pray. Change your outlook. Declare what you believe out loud so that the devils of hell can hear it. Do something that demonstrates your confidence in Jesus even when you’re not feeling it. Tell someone what you’re thankful for. Sing.

We can get through this by faith.

[pomrania]

Important Matters I

((Part of the Little by Little AU. Continued here))

Once back on the ship, Hera went straight to the lounge while Sabine brought her pack to her own quarters, and Zeb presumably did the same. She was apprehensive, and anxious to find out what it was and get it over with, but very few situations were made better by carrying unnecessary baggage. She forced her worries to the back of her mind and put everything back where it belonged. Depending on how bad it was, she might not be able to, afterwards.

"We're here," she heard Zeb say as she entered the room where they were meeting. "Care to tell us what the big surprise is?"

Everyone was there. Good. Surely they would have been told if someone had died, and Hera would have been a lot more visibly upset, but still.

"So," she said with forced cheer, "who's dying?" There was no way it could be that bad. Right?

"Nobody," Kanan answered, "not to the best of my knowledge." She relaxed, slightly. Whatever it was, they could probably deal with it.... "Unless someone else is hiding something."

Hera was waiting for them when Zeb and Sabine arrived. She nodded at them. "I'm glad to see you both back safely," she said. "I trust your mission went well?"

Sabine felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "It was... interesting," she settled on. "We already reported to Sato on the way here, but I can share the highlights if you want."

"Highlights," Zeb repeated. "You blew up a tree while I was still in it!"

"I already said I'm sorry, I didn't know you were there; besides, you weren't hurt, and it got the alligator-wolves out of the way."

"I thought we were calling them wolfigators?"

"I'm sure this will be a fascinating story," Hera said, "and I look forward to hearing it, but later. There's a family meeting scheduled for as soon as you two were back, in the lounge, and it's important."

"What's it about?" Sabine carelessly asked, as they started towards the Ghost.

"You'll find out there."

"Not even a hint?" Sabine remembered meeting to hear that they were low on supplies, to plan out future missions or surprise parties, or when the "meeting" had turned out to be a surprise party. She was expecting a smile, or a frown, or a whispered explanation.

She was not expecting the complete lack of expression on Hera's face, and in her voice.

"You'll find out at the meeting. Come along."

Zeb stopped walking and crossed his arms. "No," he said. "I'm not going any farther, not until you tell us what's wrong. This isn't like you. Are you under duress or something?"

Hera turned, blinked, and her mouth partially opened in surprise. Obviously that was not the case. She recovered, and gave a quick smile. "No, that isn't something you have to worry about here," she said, and subtly twitched her lekku in the all-clear signal they had established.

"Then why can't you tell us?"

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, her face was back to a studied neutral expression. "It really isn't my place to talk about it. You'll understand later."

Sabine and Zeb exchanged glances. There was no chance it could be anything pleasant, even if it wasn't dangerous. Neither of them voiced their worries, but she could see the direction of his thoughts in how his ears twitched, and hers had to be just as apparent to him.

They followed her. There was nothing else to do, not at the moment.

Once back on the ship, Hera went straight to the lounge while Sabine brought her pack to her own quarters, and Zeb presumably did the same. She was apprehensive, and anxious to find out what it was and get it over with, but very few situations were made better by carrying unnecessary baggage. She forced her worries to the back of her mind and put everything back where it belonged. Depending on how bad it was, she might not be able to, afterwards.

"We're here," she heard Zeb say as she entered the room where they were meeting. "Care to tell us what the big surprise is?"

Everyone was there. Good. Surely they would have been told if someone had died, and Hera would have been a lot more visibly upset, but still.

"So," she said with forced cheer, "who's dying?" There was no way it could be that bad. Right?

"Nobody," Kanan answered, "not to the best of my knowledge." She relaxed, slightly. Whatever it was, they could probably deal with it.... "Unless someone else is hiding something."

Zeb looked at her. She looked at him, then looked around. Hera was very steadily keeping her gaze on the two of them, and very definitely not looking at anything else. Kanan, well, he couldn't really look at anyone, but she saw that his hand was on Ezra's shoulder. Ezra was quite intently studying his fingernails. Despite wearing gloves.

She honed in on him. "Ezra. What is it?"

He glanced up at her, then quickly looked back down.

"What's wrong?"

Kanan leaned in closer to him. "It's okay," he murmured.

Ezra suddenly gave a wide grin. "How did your mission go?" he brightly asked.

"It went well, but that's not the issue here," Zeb growled; he was worried, not angry.

"Things have been okay here... nothing much really happened, just the usual, Chopper being a pain as always, Hera getting on my case about cleaning the ship...."

Hera made a strangled noise of protest, facepalmed, and sighed.

That was when Sabine noticed what she didn't hear: Chopper. The droid was being unusually silent. She glanced over -- yes, he was there, and not powered down. Normally he would have been chattering, especially after such a slight against him, but he was quiet. Subdued. Almost like when....

Zeb had caught onto that as well, and his ears dropped. "It's bad, isn't it," he said.

Ezra looked away. "It's... it's not that bad," he said, and tried to force a smile. "Hey, did I ever tell you guys the one about the stormtrooper, the TIE pilot, and the farmer? So they walk into a bar, and --"

"Yes, you have. Five times," Sabine forcefully stated; and all of those times had been when he was trying to avoid talking about something, which was blatantly obvious.

He pulled at his collar. "I can't keep this a secret from you guys." He laughed, but it sounded fake. "I literally can't, because you'd notice sooner or later."

They waited.

He put his hands behind his back, stared at the ceiling, and began to tunelessly hum.

"Do you want me to tell them," Hera quietly asked, but Kanan raised a hand in her direction and shook his head.

"Tell us what?" Zeb demanded.

Ezra shifted, and it seemed like he was clenching and unclenching his fists. He looked... lost, or afraid, and that didn't belong on him, not like that.

"I'm... it's like...."

Sabine felt pure dread rise up in her chest. Whatever it is, don't say it. She thought that she would rather forever exist in that moment of anticipatory agony, than know. As things stood, it could be anything. There was even a small chance that it wasn't really anything bad....

"My vision's been getting worse for about a year. I'm going blind." He weakly smiled. "Sorry I didn't tell you earlier."

What.

What. No.

That didn't make sense. It couldn't be.

"What happened?" she distantly heard herself ask. "Is it from an injury?" If it was, she would find the person responsible, find them and kill them and tear out their eyes and present it to him on a silver platter....

"No, it's genetic. Sacul Syndrome. My aunt had it. Normally it first starts in your late forties, I'm just unlucky enough to have the early-onset variety."

Nobody to avenge herself upon, nobody to blame, only his parents for passing on the genes, and they were guiltless and dead besides.

"Are you sure about this? No mistake?"

Kanan spoke up. "I was there for the tests. I heard the formal diagnosis," he paused, "and the prognosis. The medical droid was quite certain."

"They're not infallible. Do you trust it?"

"Yes. Enno-fifteen is the same droid who treated me, after Malachor."

Sabine remembered "after Malachor". She remembered Kanan -- no. Ezra couldn't be forced to go through that as well. It wasn't fair. (Life wasn't fair, she knew, but that didn't stop her from wishing otherwise.)

"How --" how advanced is it, how much time do you have left, how did you not say anything, but the words caught in her throat.

"I understand that there will be questions," Hera said calmly, too calmly. "I have prepared an overview, along with answers to some of the questions we anticipated. If you would care to look at this...."

"You seem to have everything under control," Ezra said with a slight laugh, "so if that's it, I guess I'll... just...." He slipped past them, and was out of the room before Sabine could think to say anything.

She looked at the datapad she'd been given. The letters refused to resolve themselves into words, and seemed to lose all meaning under her gaze. She peered closer, and the lines blurred into an indistinct haze, as did everything else. Was she -- crying?

She sank into a chair, and wiped angrily at her eyes. She had no reason to cry, she was perfectly fine, it wasn't like she was the one losing her... going....

She pushed away the datapad, and it fell unheeded to the floor. "I can't do this," she muttered. "I can't read, I can't focus, I c-ca--" She burst out in tears. She couldn't control it.

Somebody asked if she was okay, and she couldn't even tell who it was despite knowing all the other people there. She wasn't okay, she wasn't in the same galaxy let alone same planet as "okay", but she wasn't the one they should be worrying about, she shouldn't be causing any extra problems....

"I shouldn't be crying," she babbled, "not when everyone else is handling it so well, and you two had known earlier but Zeb just found out now and he's calm and --" She buried her face in her hands. "I'm sorry," she managed.

"What makes you think I'm calm?" Zeb asked.

"You've been reading --"

"I've been turning pages," he corrected, "but I haven't looked at any of the text. You're young still, and you're in a safe environment. You don't need to keep silent, and you don't need to hide your grief."

"I should be the one to apologize," Hera said. Sabine looked up at her. "I shouldn't have dumped all that information on you like that, and expected you to be able to read it so soon. Take those with you, and look through them when you feel up to it."

Zeb took another glance at his datapad, then put it away. "Can you just tell us the most important stuff we need to know?"

Hera spoke in a measured tone. "Currently, Ezra's main problems are difficulty seeing in low light and a reduced field of vision." Zeb's ears tensed and lowered, and Sabine remembered him complaining about Ezra keeping the light on at night. "There are also issues with fine detail such as small text, and distant objects, but those are easily compensated for.

"At the moment, accommodation is... mostly...." She trailed off. Kanan put an arm around her shoulder, and she leaned into him. Light glistened off her cheek.

"Accommodation is mostly limited to making sure there is sufficient illumination, and that any text is large enough," he continued, as if they had practiced it. Maybe they had. "I'll be working with him, on other matters, for the future."

Sabine didn't want to be helpless and powerless; not in this, not in anything. "Can anything be done to help?"

"Help, yes. Be there for him, try not to leave things in the way, don't grab his arm without asking.... But as for preventing further vision loss, or restoring what he's already lost, no."

"...how long?" Zeb said. "How long does he have?"

"He's not dying," Hera immediately corrected, but she knew what was meant. They all did.

"Enno-fifteen didn't give a definite timescale," Kanan said. "There are too many variables to predict the course of any disorder with both accuracy and precision, he told us." His hand reached for Hera's. "He was however confident that total vision loss would happen within five years, following significant and then severe impairment.”

"And 'total' here means...?"

Kanan vaguely waved his free hand in front of his face. "Nothing."

Five years wasn't enough time. And Sabine wasn't exactly sure how "significant" or "severe" impairment were defined, but they couldn't be good.

She felt numb, like all the blood had drained out of her. The skin under her eyes was sore and irritated. "Is that it then for now?"

Chopper beeped a negative. Wait, hadn't he been over there? She hadn't noticed him moving, and turned to look.

He was at the door. Apparently he had left the room and just then come back. He carried with him a stack of mugs, a thermos, and a box filled with what looked like flavour packets.

He came over, and waved at her to take something to drink. She poured herself a mug of what certainly appeared to be hot water, and selected a flavour packet. She didn’t normally pick “hot chocolate”, but at the moment that comfort was what she wanted.

She didn’t bother to sniff the packet before tearing it open and mixing the powder with the water. "If this is capsaicin powder again I'm going to disassemble you," she said, but the threat had no energy behind it. Chopper gave a halfhearted intended-to-be-mocking chuckle.

The droid moved on. Zeb took three different packets to stir in. She didn’t know how he could even drink that concoction; she had tried it once, and couldn’t taste anything else for the rest of the day. Sometimes she wondered if it was a "Lasat" thing or a "Zeb" thing. Maybe his species had a different tongue configuration, or maybe he was just weird. Zeb's tastes were an easy and safe subject to speculate on.

Hera quietly told Kanan what flavours there were; he made his choice, and she handed it to him. Just a small thing, but it was impossible for him to do by himself, no matter how good he was with the Force.

Sabine imagined Ezra asking what flavour a packet was, because he couldn’t see. If she thought about it, she didn’t have to imagine. She remembered the last time they’d had this, and how he had asked her to pick out one for him. The writing on the packets was small. He hadn’t been able to read it.

She slowly sipped at the beverage. Holding it gave her hands something to do, and an excuse for none of them to talk. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted it to be a dream and wake up in a better world, where nobody was going blind and Chopper didn’t have to be helpful. While she was at it, she might as well wish for the Empire to spontaneously collapse with nobody else having to die, and ration bars to taste good; that was roughly as likely, and if she was going to engage in fantasy she might as well dream big.

The hot chocolate was lukewarm, and mostly finished. She didn't remember drinking it. Some of the powder had settled to the bottom, creating abstract patterns of dark and pale. She remembered hearing of telling one's fortune by the arrangement of tea leaves left afterwards. Those weren't leaves, but she could see the future anyways: Ezra turning his head at the sound of her voice, and his eyes never focusing on her, maybe only half-open because it didn't matter to him. Or maybe it was her imagination. It didn't matter the source, if it was still going to happen.

She drained the rest of the beverage, and left her mug on the table when she got up. It didn't matter. Nothing that she could do really mattered there.

[rilenerocks]

As is the way of the spinning world, my wedding anniversary has come around again, despite the coronavirus pandemic. And on this day, in my little corner of existence, I reflect on this third year of celebrating the date without Michael. I have every single note that accompanied every single flower that I received from him each May 1st for 40 plus decades. The habit of marking history by saving all of them is a great comfort to me. I am emotionally more healed this year than I was last year, and I’m sure that I’ll continue to manage my longing for his company with more ease as time passes. For as long as I’m still here, that is. I was lucky to have a partner who thought of what my life would be like without him. He left me treasures that sustain me, along with his constant inexplicable presence. He promised what I would feel, emblazoned on the note that was silkscreened onto my mourning quilt that he had commissioned, made from pieces of his clothing. 

This year, I will finally listen to the CD’s he made for me in 2014, when he wasn’t sure how long he’d survive. We were so lucky to get three more years. I’ve only listened to them once – maybe I can get through them this time. Meanwhile, I wrote The Lusty Month of May in 2018, one year after Michael died. I re-read it and found that it still resonates. So here it is, my feelings from two years ago.

When I was in my late teens, I went to see the film Camelot which was based on a stage musical. The movie premiered in 1967. The title of this post is a song from that film, composed by Lerner and Loewe. The story was emotionally stirring and made its way into our cultural lore as emblematic of life during the Kennedy administration. Of course we know that the romance and the tragedy skimmed the surface of politics, life and love. But I sobbed my way through it anyway, leaving intellect aside to just feel all the feels. I remember. And what did May really mean to me? As a youngster it meant a surprise May basket, stuffed with candy, and a dance around the maypole at school, entwining pastel crepe paper streamers as we skipped under each other to avoid tangling. I have a May birthday. So did my childhood friend Fern who was born 10 days before me. But even though we were bonded in time, she was a Taurus and I was a Gemini, which somehow meant we could account for our very glaring differences.

And May was also Mother’s Day month which back in my youth, meant waking before dawn and assembling a breakfast for my mom with my siblings. A breakfast which we usually picked at until there was virtually nothing left for her. She just wanted to sleep anyway.

When I got older, May 1st became the celebration of labor and a new bond that I felt out on the left wing with my political friends. I learned the words to the Internationale, although I’m not sure I recall all of them.

And then suddenly, I was in real love, and after a four year testing period, Michael and I chose May 1st as our wedding date. The lusty month of May indeed. As we got ready to actually do it, we looked wonderingly over the balcony of our hotel in Chicago and watched the May Day parade roll down Wacker Drive, thinking how odd it was that we weren’t down there marching.

Fern died 30 years ago and although I think of her regularly each year, her birthday is always a difficult time for me.

When Michael died last year on May 28th, four days after my birthday, I realized that the joy I always associated with the lusty month had now gone sour. Instead of celebrations, these dates which marked such significant events will at best be bittersweet. For now, as I face down my first wedding anniversary without Michael, soon to be followed by my first mother’s day without him and my mom long gone, I realize that those moments are just the beginning. Next will be Fern’s birthday, followed by my first birthday without Michael and then, the biggest one, the first anniversary of his death. It feels like a lot to me. I know that maybe some day, the pain from all of these landmarks will lessen. I’ve had anticipatory grief, trying to prepare for May which is now finally upon me. I am flooded with memories of our wedding scrambled in with the final weeks of Michael’s life last year. There are too many stories to weave into a blog post. I woke today and felt internally wobbly. I managed a few chores and went swimming, happy that my usual crew wasn’t at the pool because I wasn’t sure I could keep myself together. Then I went home and gardened for awhile, listening to music, crying and imposing a state of silence on myself. For this year, I need to go through these first few days and nights alone. And I settled on what I needed to say, to let free the memories seared into my mind and the thoughts I’ve been journaling as I’ve navigated this year.

First, there are our wedding vows that we wrote so earnestly all those decades ago. Me: I stumbled about in the labyrinth Pained and troubled by a bleak confusion. Imagine my joy when a light in a far corner was you. Me: Michael, with you I will reach for an ever-growing integrity in living. Michael: Renee with you I will strive for an equal sharing of love, responsibility and trust. Me: With you I will share my thoughts and emotions in honesty. Michael: Together we will work for individual growth and development that we may each find meaning in our lives. Me: Together we will struggle to make beauty, dignity and mutual respect integral parts of our relationship. Michael: Together we will search for a fulfillment of our ideals. Michael: Through the darkness of my mind, I search for what I see is true. I stood alone without belief-the only trust I know is you.

Not exactly standard fare, but reflective of who we were and how we tried to live.

And then there was this note I wrote to Michael in July, 1997 which I found when going through his papers after he died. Already 25 years into our relationship. It still moves me and was oddly prescient of how I still feel today.

In my head, I see your profile Because I’m next to you, as usual. Thinking of what we’ve done. Births Surgeries Death Lies Fears Insecurities Joy Companionship Passion Friendship Tenderness Excitement Longing Everything. With more to come. It sneaks up on you. Year after year. The great love of your life. Your best friend. The blurry lines between you and me and me and you. I made the right choices. I did the best for me. Right now, our children are coming home from a trip, haven’t seen them in six days or so. Haven’t seen you in four hours. I miss you more. Will you be coming to sit on my bed in the middle of the night if you should die before me? The way my mother says my father comes to hers?

I have no memory of writing that but here it is, in black and white before me.

Every year, Michael gave me roses on our anniversary. The tradition started with one for each year but after awhile, that got too expensive. He always wrote a little note on one of the cards that are lying around when you go to pick up flowers. I have all of them. In 2014, he had just finished 18 rounds of chemo before our anniversary. The card below came that year. And he certainly kept his word as he did impossible things to stay alive.

This is what I wrote a few days ago, assessing where I am today, approaching this intense month.

Anniversary Love – For Michael

You are every note and every lyric. You are every story and every poem. You are light and midnight blue. You are every petal and every stalk. You are the field, the mountain, the glade, the ocean. You are serenity and rage, peace and tumult. You are constant and transient. You are daunting strength and trembling weakness. You are my comfort and my desolation. You are satiety and starvation. You are the beginning, the middle and the end. You are the past, the present and the future. How could both your presence and your absence blot out everything?

Have I left anything out?

The lusty month of May. I hope I have the strength for it.

The Lusty Month of May As is the way of the spinning world, my wedding anniversary has come around again, despite the coronavirus pandemic.

[floraexplorer]

How I Cope With The Loss of My Parents at Christmas

Grieving at Christmas is a tradition I wish I didn’t have to follow.

Both of my parents died in winter. But even if they’d died outside the confines of twinkling lights and snowy landscapes, this season would still fill me with dread.

Whether you’re facing your first Christmas or your twentieth after losing a loved one, it’s likely you’re expecting it to hurt. Grief doesn’t seem to hold itself to the normal passage of time: the intensity of emotion may lessen, but its existence still doesn’t change much as the years go by.

There’s also a uniquely bitter irony in suffering through a holiday season which so many others seem to find such happiness in. Whether it’s the decorated trees in people’s windows, the familiar songs piped through every loudspeaker, or the deluge of blithe positivity from everyone around you, the build-up to Christmas and the day itself can feel like an insurmountable burden when you’ve been bereaved.

But after a full decade in this state, I’ve come to terms with what Christmas looks and feels like for me. Although the breath still catches in my throat a lot more often each December, I know my triggers now. I can just about get through the grief.

To most of us, Christmas means family. But what if you’re alone now?

We’re brought up believing that Christmas is intrinsically about family – and I still count myself lucky to have the memories of nineteen happy Christmases to look back on.

There’s home video of me panicking aged six on Christmas Eve about not building a snowman (an impossible feat because there wasn’t any snow that year). I remember my parents jubilation when they gave a teenage me the guitar I’d longed for. I can see my dad’s gritted teeth when my matriarchal grandmother demanded he make chestnut stuffing from scratch. And I’ll never stop thinking of my mum racing around the kitchen with her jumper sleeves rolled up and permanently foggy glasses jammed into her curly hair, as multiple pans boiled and the steamy air filled up with the unmistakeable smell of Christmas.

But nostalgia is a powerful thing. When there’s zero chance of those situations happening again, the associated memories are no longer just ‘happy’. Now they’ve been tainted somewhat, because everything about those past Christmases has vanished.

I found out my mum was going to die on Christmas Eve 2008. She passed away just two weeks later and the holiday season was never the same again – largely because Mum was the one who brought the entire over-extravagant event into being, from the sprigs of holly tucked into every framed picture in the house to the pine needles, tinsel and metres of wrapping paper scattered across the floor.

The first Christmas after her death, I wanted to ignore the whole festive season. I was still at university, studying abroad in San Francisco, so my dad and I decided he’d stay in London and we’d just do our own thing in our respective continents. It was my first ever Christmas spent with friends instead of family: we got very drunk the night before and the actual day was a hilariously hungover mess. I had a quick Skype call with my dad but when it was over I felt relieved. It was much easier to forget what this holiday had once felt like.

As the years went on, our two-person Christmas settled into a pattern. Dad stopped buying big Christmas trees and put lights around a tiny potted tree instead, with Mum’s photo propped up beside it. Dad and I swapped presents in the morning, then I’d cook us brunch – scrambled eggs, smoked salmon, cheersing with glasses of Prosecco – before we headed to our family friends’ house to spend the rest of our day there.

Christmas had become a more muted affair, and we both knew how achingly big the gap was which Mum had left behind. But we pretended we could handle it, nonetheless.

And then Dad died in late 2017, and I had to re-evaluate what my Christmas felt like all over again.

What you should know about coping with grief at Christmas

If I had to put my Christmas grief into a few crucial words, it would be these. Grieving at Christmas is lonely. It’s upsetting. It’s isolating. It’s less about enjoyment and more about survival, pushing steadfastly through the holiday and hoping there isn’t too much painful fallout by the time January rolls around.

Those of us who are bereaved at Christmas are sensitive and vulnerable and easy to upset. We’re jealous of those who have a seemingly perfect Christmas with all their loved ones accounted for. We’re always acutely aware that our particular someone is missing – and we’re also desperately hoping we might forget.

But after ten years of feeling like this, what I’ve finally come to realise is that Christmas doesn’t have any one set way of being celebrated. (In fact, screw it – you don’t have to celebrate at all if you don’t want to.)

The following is a collection of my tried and tested tips to make it through a grief-filled Christmas season.

1. Don’t put any pressure on yourself to ‘cope better’.

The first Christmas without them will almost certainly be daunting. As will the second, the fifth, and the eleventh. It’s been over a decade of Christmases without my mum and the festive season still hurts. What I’m trying to say is that you probably won’t suddenly “be better” one year. It’s not like Christmas ever reverts back to how it used to feel – it’s more like the emotions get less intense.

2. Let yourself cry.

The urge to have a full-on sob fest is probably going to happen. It might strike without warning, too – and that potential can make you feel really on edge. But just like the rest of the year, the crying won’t last forever. For many grieving people (myself included) there’s an internal grief-clock which switches on around December 1st and doesn’t stop ticking through ‘Time Without Them’ until the new year begins. I hate it – but I know that sensation extremely well now. And I just have to respect that self-care and compassion has to be my main focus throughout the month.

3. Tell your friends you’re not doing well.

One of the hardest parts about grieving is the isolation factor. While it feels like everyone else is heading home to their loving families, you’re left alone with too many memories and not enough distraction from them. However, chances are that plenty of your friends would be more than happy to involve you in their Christmas plans – you just might have to make the first move and ask.

4. Unless you know you’ll find it helpful, avoid social media.

From sometime in early November, the festive-themed social media posts start to ramp up. Tinsel and tree lights and Christmas jumper pub crawls begin to pour across my feeds and eventually it makes me nauseous. I don’t need to see all this happy Christmas fun if I’m not feeling the same – so I actively curb my social media usage.

There are a few really helpful hashtags on Twitter for those going through a rough time over Christmas, but for the most part it’s a lot of people expounding their gratitude for happy Christmases. I’d say avoid it.

5. Avoid excessive levels of Christmas festivities in the run-up to the 25th.

I’m talking constant headphone-wearing to avoid the Christmas music, doing your shopping away from main high streets, and never venturing to anything with a name like ‘Winter Wonderland’. It can be distressing and exhausting when the world is filled with tinsel-covered decorations and you can’t escape the Christmas songs pouring out of every shop loudspeaker, but they’re somewhat avoidable if you plan ahead.

What’s more tricky to avoid is when your friends get overexcited about Christmas – both online and in person. Although you might feel like a Grinch, sometimes a gentle reminder that you’re not doing fantastically this year can help. Alternatively, just quietly mute their social channels for the Christmas period.

6. Fill up your time with a few events in the diary.

There’s always a chance you won’t feel up to it when the time comes – but having some activities already planned means you’re minimising your free time to sit and think. I’d particularly recommend having things planned for the weird week between Christmas and New Year – it’s the lull where everyone seems to disappear into family mode, and that can feel pretty isolating and triggering.

In the run-up to Christmas, arrange some specifically non-Christmassy activities to get away from the festive stress. Scheduling some quiet time with the people who love you can alleviate some of the loneliness brought on by grief.

NB: try to avoid committing to anything you’ll feel guilty about missing, or an event where people might be mad if you bail – you don’t need the added pressure! 

7. Decide where you’re going to spend Christmas Day.

Are you staying at home by yourself, or will you be with a partner? Would you prefer to spend Christmas Day at a friend’s house, or with extended family? Bear in mind you don’t have to stick to this plan, but it’s good to have some vague structure in place beforehand. That way if you wake up on Christmas morning already exhausted, you get to stumble through the day with minimal effort.

If you’re in a position where you might be expected to host Christmas yourself, definitely try and have some failsafes in place – be it a stack of takeout menus, food from the freezer or willing hands to do the cooking for you.

8. Expect that you might not be ok – but don’t mire yourself in anticipatory grief either.

I usually spend the weeks leading up to Christmas in an increasing state of worry. What if I break down in the supermarket aisle? What if I can’t stop crying all throughout Christmas Day? What if, what if, what if?

This year (thanks to a lot of therapy) I’ve realised that my Generalised Anxiety Disorder is the main culprit for my future-predicting thoughts – but it’s likely that anyone dealing with grief will feel more vulnerable, sensitive and upset during December. Anticipatory grief is a bitch of an emotion because it’s usually not representative of how you’ll actually feel on The Day. Instead of focusing on a black/white scenario of being ‘OK’ or ‘Not OK’, aim for the grey area in the middle. Which is probably more likely!

9. Actively ‘remember’ the person who died.

If it feels like you’re constantly avoiding the grieving elephant in the room – well, why not lean into it? Sometimes embracing the fear is less problematic than you imagine. Bring the person who died back into your Christmas: for me, that means watching home movies of my parents, looking at family photos, and retelling my favourite holiday stories about them. I make them more alive.

I know how much my mum adored Christmas, and how important it was for her to see her family happy – so in a roundabout sort of way I let her do it again.

9. Enjoy the possibility of creating new traditions.

My new Christmas with my friend’s family involves a vegan Christmas lunch, a walk in the park nearby, and playing an old board game called Dizzy Dizzy Dinosaur (which my Dad and I brought to their house one year and the tradition stuck). Trying to recreate the old memories is a pretty dangerous activity, as it’s never going to feel the same. But changing and tweaking them into new traditions? That can work.

10. Treat yourself!

Just because you’re not getting presents from your parents anymore, that doesn’t mean you have to go without completely. Buy yourself something you’ve been lusting after for a while, or something which reminds you of them, or even the kind of present they might have bought for you. You can even wrap it if you want!

11. If you’re really dreading Christmas Day, do something totally different – like volunteering.

I’ve volunteered with a UK-based homeless charity called Crisis at Christmas almost every year throughout the last decade. I started the year before Mum died, and it’s strangely been really cathartic to have my own tradition that’s lasted me through the deaths of two parents. Spending a few days of the Christmas week with people from so many different walks of life is inspiring, humbling and honestly quite life-affirming for me – and it’s a good reminder that I’m not the only one who finds the festive season somewhat difficult.

12. Remember, you don’t have to celebrate Christmas at all. 

For some people, it makes the most sense to simply ignore the entire holiday and travel somewhere completely different. Unfortunately, I’ve come to realise this method doesn’t really work for me. When I’ve spent Christmas away from home (in San Francisco the first year after Mum died, and in Bolivia a few years later) I still felt just as sad – I just happened to be in a different part of the world.

However, what you CAN theoretically do to combat that sadness is fill your days with so much activity that you don’t have time to think. Escapism and distraction are your two key words here.

I’d recommend finding a jam-packed itinerary, perhaps with an organised tour company. Or round up a few friends who have an equal dislike of the holiday and all go away together, perhaps to a beach with plenty of cocktails..! There are even some grief support groups which arrange big trips with fellow griefsters to get through the holiday season en masse.

13. You have the freedom to choose what Christmas looks like for you.

It took me a long time to realise that I did actually want to celebrate Christmas in some form. It turns out that some traditions mean a lot to me (which is probably why it was so painful to lose them with my parents) and I’ve been lucky enough to have friends and chosen family who help celebrate those traditions: singing carols, opening stockings on Christmas morning, spending the day with people I’ve known my whole life who knew my parents really well too.

But I also get to decide that some elements of my past Christmases can be put to rest – or put on pause, at least. I don’t need to put up a tree in my house, or buy tons of presents out of stress and obligation. These things don’t make me feel any closer to my parents and it’s a strangely positive realisation to know their memory isn’t tied to every speck of my past Christmases.

14. Don’t be afraid to put yourself first – you’re allowed to be happy, whatever that looks like!

Ultimately, Christmas is your holiday – and ‘holiday’ really is the operative word. Think of it as little more than taking a break from your normal daily life and routine: if that means spending the day alone in bed, then that’s a perfectly acceptable Christmas. Just make sure that you’re doing what you want to do.

I have a decade of grieving Christmases behind me, and my feelings about Christmas are still bittersweet. They probably always will be. But I’ve made my peace with that now, more or less.

And so will you. I promise.

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  This time last year I could never have imagined where I’d be right now. But it happened. My dad died, and so my world shifted. Now, I’m spending a quiet Christmas Eve in my family house, without any surviving members of my family apart from me. And yet? That shifted world I inhabit is still beautiful. Different, yes – but undeniably beautiful. The dusk sky still shines with ethereal colours dancing through the clouds; traces of seawater still reflect smudges of fading light along the dappled sands, and it’s utterly mesmerising. I’ve been reflecting so much the past few weeks. I know my life has changed forever, but it’s still mine. I’ve spent the last decade since my mum’s death living fiercely: I’ve been experiencing everything I can of this beautiful world, and I won’t let that change. So merry Christmas, folks. The tide might be out in southwest Scotland, but soon it’ll come back to life again. And so will I

A post shared by Flora The Explorer (@florabaker) on Dec 24, 2017 at 8:29am PST

If you’d like to read more of my articles on dealing with grief, here’s a selection:

– The uncertainty of taking a loved one to hospital

– When community rallies around you in times of grief

– What happens when you’re grieving before a death?

– Saying goodbye when someone dies

– Three months of being an orphan

– Dealing with Christmas when you’re grieving

– Staying close to those you’ve lost by using their possessions

– Self care strategies for your mental health

– How to break the taboo of talking about death

Pin this article if you found it helpful!

  The post How I Cope With The Loss of My Parents at Christmas appeared first on Flora The Explorer.

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[rilenerocks]

As is the way of the spinning world, my wedding anniversary has come around again, despite the coronavirus pandemic. And on this day, in my little corner of existence, I reflect on this third year of celebrating the date without Michael. I have every single note that accompanied every single flower that I received from him each May 1st for 40 plus decades. The habit of marking history by saving all of them is a great comfort to me. I am emotionally more healed this year than I was last year, and I’m sure that I’ll continue to manage my longing for his company with more ease as time passes. For as long as I’m still here, that is. I was lucky to have a partner who thought of what my life would be like without him. He left me treasures that sustain me, along with his constant inexplicable presence. He promised what I would feel, emblazoned on the note that was silkscreened onto my mourning quilt that he had commissioned, made from pieces of his clothing. 

This year, I will finally listen to the CD’s he made for me in 2014, when he wasn’t sure how long he’d survive. We were so lucky to get three more years. I’ve only listened to them once – maybe I can get through them this time. Meanwhile, I wrote The Lusty Month of May in 2018, one year after Michael died. I re-read it and found that it still resonates. So here it is, my feelings from two years ago.

When I was in my late teens, I went to see the film Camelot which was based on a stage musical. The movie premiered in 1967. The title of this post is a song from that film, composed by Lerner and Loewe. The story was emotionally stirring and made its way into our cultural lore as emblematic of life during the Kennedy administration. Of course we know that the romance and the tragedy skimmed the surface of politics, life and love. But I sobbed my way through it anyway, leaving intellect aside to just feel all the feels. I remember. And what did May really mean to me? As a youngster it meant a surprise May basket, stuffed with candy, and a dance around the maypole at school, entwining pastel crepe paper streamers as we skipped under each other to avoid tangling. I have a May birthday. So did my childhood friend Fern who was born 10 days before me. But even though we were bonded in time, she was a Taurus and I was a Gemini, which somehow meant we could account for our very glaring differences.

And May was also Mother’s Day month which back in my youth, meant waking before dawn and assembling a breakfast for my mom with my siblings. A breakfast which we usually picked at until there was virtually nothing left for her. She just wanted to sleep anyway.

When I got older, May 1st became the celebration of labor and a new bond that I felt out on the left wing with my political friends. I learned the words to the Internationale, although I’m not sure I recall all of them.

And then suddenly, I was in real love, and after a four year testing period, Michael and I chose May 1st as our wedding date. The lusty month of May indeed. As we got ready to actually do it, we looked wonderingly over the balcony of our hotel in Chicago and watched the May Day parade roll down Wacker Drive, thinking how odd it was that we weren’t down there marching.

Fern died 30 years ago and although I think of her regularly each year, her birthday is always a difficult time for me.

When Michael died last year on May 28th, four days after my birthday, I realized that the joy I always associated with the lusty month had now gone sour. Instead of celebrations, these dates which marked such significant events will at best be bittersweet. For now, as I face down my first wedding anniversary without Michael, soon to be followed by my first mother’s day without him and my mom long gone, I realize that those moments are just the beginning. Next will be Fern’s birthday, followed by my first birthday without Michael and then, the biggest one, the first anniversary of his death. It feels like a lot to me. I know that maybe some day, the pain from all of these landmarks will lessen. I’ve had anticipatory grief, trying to prepare for May which is now finally upon me. I am flooded with memories of our wedding scrambled in with the final weeks of Michael’s life last year. There are too many stories to weave into a blog post. I woke today and felt internally wobbly. I managed a few chores and went swimming, happy that my usual crew wasn’t at the pool because I wasn’t sure I could keep myself together. Then I went home and gardened for awhile, listening to music, crying and imposing a state of silence on myself. For this year, I need to go through these first few days and nights alone. And I settled on what I needed to say, to let free the memories seared into my mind and the thoughts I’ve been journaling as I’ve navigated this year.

First, there are our wedding vows that we wrote so earnestly all those decades ago. Me: I stumbled about in the labyrinth Pained and troubled by a bleak confusion. Imagine my joy when a light in a far corner was you. Me: Michael, with you I will reach for an ever-growing integrity in living. Michael: Renee with you I will strive for an equal sharing of love, responsibility and trust. Me: With you I will share my thoughts and emotions in honesty. Michael: Together we will work for individual growth and development that we may each find meaning in our lives. Me: Together we will struggle to make beauty, dignity and mutual respect integral parts of our relationship. Michael: Together we will search for a fulfillment of our ideals. Michael: Through the darkness of my mind, I search for what I see is true. I stood alone without belief-the only trust I know is you.

Not exactly standard fare, but reflective of who we were and how we tried to live.

And then there was this note I wrote to Michael in July, 1997 which I found when going through his papers after he died. Already 25 years into our relationship. It still moves me and was oddly prescient of how I still feel today.

In my head, I see your profile Because I’m next to you, as usual. Thinking of what we’ve done. Births Surgeries Death Lies Fears Insecurities Joy Companionship Passion Friendship Tenderness Excitement Longing Everything. With more to come. It sneaks up on you. Year after year. The great love of your life. Your best friend. The blurry lines between you and me and me and you. I made the right choices. I did the best for me. Right now, our children are coming home from a trip, haven’t seen them in six days or so. Haven’t seen you in four hours. I miss you more. Will you be coming to sit on my bed in the middle of the night if you should die before me? The way my mother says my father comes to hers?

I have no memory of writing that but here it is, in black and white before me.

Every year, Michael gave me roses on our anniversary. The tradition started with one for each year but after awhile, that got too expensive. He always wrote a little note on one of the cards that are lying around when you go to pick up flowers. I have all of them. In 2014, he had just finished 18 rounds of chemo before our anniversary. The card below came that year. And he certainly kept his word as he did impossible things to stay alive.

This is what I wrote a few days ago, assessing where I am today, approaching this intense month.

Anniversary Love – For Michael

You are every note and every lyric. You are every story and every poem. You are light and midnight blue. You are every petal and every stalk. You are the field, the mountain, the glade, the ocean. You are serenity and rage, peace and tumult. You are constant and transient. You are daunting strength and trembling weakness. You are my comfort and my desolation. You are satiety and starvation. You are the beginning, the middle and the end. You are the past, the present and the future. How could both your presence and your absence blot out everything?

Have I left anything out?

The lusty month of May. I hope I have the strength for it.

The Lusty Month of May As is the way of the spinning world, my wedding anniversary has come around again, despite the coronavirus pandemic.