Permission To Grieve

Two more days and the year will be over.  Two more days and each of us enters a new year without that person we love.

 How do we mark the new year? is this a time we hope for the pain to go away?  Do we hope for optimism?  Do we hope for an easier year?  Do we hope…..

What is it that you hope for?

 I’m hoping to laugh more this year.  For the past few years my laugh mechanism didn’t seem to work to often.  I didn’t feel like laughing.  There weren’t many things that struck me funny.  But, I miss laughing from my belly and my soul.  A full out laugh is healing. 

I want to pay attention this year when I laugh.  I want to be conscious and awake when I laugh so each time is a sacred moment.  Each genuine burst of laughter is medicine for my soul.  Just like crying is also medicine for my soul.

The tears have been plentiful.  I learned how to cry without fear or reserve.  I know I am capable of unabandoned laughter; I am hoping for opportunities that make me laugh.

I want to throw my head back and feel the laugh bubble up from my tummy.  I want my tummy to hurt as much from laughing as it has from crying.

I want to laugh out loud and listen to what I sound like when I am laughing.  I want to know that sound like I know my sobs.  I want to be intimate with my laughter.

That is what I hope for in 2007.  What do you hope for?

Copyright 2006-7. Barbara Cole.  All rights reserved.

When Mom died, I was sure I knew what to expect.  I had already grieved for my family before.  I clung to the paperwork of death to blunt the impact of pain.  I was truly alone without family and no one needed me. 

For the first time in 9 years, I turned the telephone off when I went to bed, even though many nights I did not sleep.  I went to bereavement groups and discussed the stages of grief again.  Even in that group I still made everyone gasp when they heard I was the sole surviving member of my family.  Even in that group I made people uncomfortable when I told the truth. It was 3:45am and I was counting the lights outside my window to see how many other people were up.  The shock was wearing off and I was terrified.  What scared me most was that I had already tried everything there was to try.  For 30 years I had no peace with my grief and I was only 47 years old.  As the sun rose, I decided to face my grief and all my losses, pain, and anguish by myself.   I wasn’t going to another group, therapist, or healer.  I didn’t know what would happen to me but it didn’t matter.  I was going to live with my grief and stop hiding and lying about it.  I mentally threw out the clock and the calendar. I was going to grieve however I needed to for however long it took.  If I died from it, so be it.  I gave myself permission to grieve. My grief was exposed.  There were times I stayed in bed and didn’t wash until a few days later when I had an urge to leave my apartment and take a walk.  I curled up in my bed sobbing with such force that my stomach hurt and I wondered if my neighbors heard me.  When I started to cry I was scared I wouldn’t stop.  After a few times crying loudly and deeply I discovered that I stopped when I was ready to stop.  The fear of my rawness diminished but my friends and extended family stopped calling so frequently.  My uninhibited expression of pain made them feel like a voyeur. Just a reminder:  on this blog, everyone’s loss is important.  We don’t grade or measure losses.  Your feelings a valid, valuable, and important and we want to hear them.  Please share your experience on the post or anything related to grieving you would like to express. 

Questions Do you feel alone in a group?

How have others responded to the expression of pain? 

Copyright 2006-7. Barbara Cole.  All rights reserved.

I am a grief expert by default. I had no choice, because I became the sole surviving member of my immediate family at 47 years old. My journey with grief began over thirty years ago when my sister died in a car accident. I was 16 years old and she was two years older. We were both too young to know about death and I was too young to learn about grief. I hated my grief because it branded me as different from everyone else and it isolated me. I learned to hide my grief because it made my friends uncomfortable. I learned to feel shame and lie and say I was an only child instead of saying my sister died. I learned to push my sorrow down, hide my pain, and bury my grief in my body, heart, and soul. I learned to guard my heart with walls around it so it wouldn’t be shattered again.

I decided that the way out was to be successful. I wanted to make a lot of money, have a career, a boyfriend, but not have children or get married. I didn’t want to risk another shattered family. I went to college, graduate school, and got a job and became an instant workaholic. After working into the wee hours, I would crawl into bed so exhausted that I couldn’t think. My loneliness was there all the time but I was too busy to pay attention. In my late twenties I decided to marry
Stephen because he nurtured me, but our relationship was based on sadness. After four years, I left him clinging to my hope for a happier life. Getting divorced triggered a new wave of loss because I was losing my family again. After my final court date, I flew to
Miami to be with Mom and Dad for comfort. Two days after I arrived, Dad suddenly died of a massive heart attack. My life was shattered. Again. And then there were two: Mom and I.

A month after Dad died, I met Bob. He was perfect because he was emotionally shut down and even more a workaholic than me. Bob was emotionally numb and he taught me how to do it better. He told me I couldn’t control my emotions and I believed him. I could busy myself to exhaustion but still my body carried the sadness. During those years, I had a frozen smile and a fractured heart and I actually believed that work was the most important thing to me.
Something drove me to keep trying to heal. Fear, shame, and anxiety drove my life and I was willing to try anything to feel better. I went to bereavement groups, read self-help books, prayed, spoke to rabbis, monks, spiritual healers and tarot card readers Yet the shame about my grief and losses still clung to me. I was highly functioning but on the inside I was clutching. I began to accept that my life was a series of trauma, tragedy, and suffering.
Six years after Dad died, Mom had a quadruple bypass. I sat in the waiting room alone silently telling her over and over that she couldn’t die on me. I wasn’t ready to be abandoned and alone without any family. If she died, I knew I would too. I couldn’t handle another loss.
She made it through the surgery but was weak and ill, and the doctors didn’t expect her to live a long time. I moved to
Miami, gave up Bob, my job, and my life to be her caregiver. I was going to will her to stay alive. For 9 years Mom struggled to stay alive for me until one day I realized how selfish my grief was. I told her she could let go and die whenever she was ready. I would be okay. I didn’t for one moment believe that, but I had to help her die in peace. Otherwise, I knew I had no chance of living.

Mom entered hospice and the countdown to death began. I made sure she was pain free but that meant she could only speak three of those five days in hospice until she died.
She told me to mourn for only a week; that I had been through too much grief and tragedy. I couldn’t promise that but I helped her let go and ushered her out of this world. I was with her until her end and my beginning. Now my deepest fears arrived. I was alone. It was a long and painful process to find a reason to be alive when I wasn’t tethered to anyone or responsible for anyone. Over the course of my history of grieving, I had tried many things but ultimately, I found strength within and a way to be more fully alive than ever before. I believe that taking the fear and shame out of grief is critical to healing. The way to remove the fear and shame is to tell the truth, even though many of our extended family and friends don’t want to hear it. Often they want us to “just move on” but we are not ready. Having a safe, non-judgmental, and supportive community can help each of us to toss out our fear and shame.

Over time, I will share with you what comforted me and what strengthened me. But this blog is not only my blog. It is our blog. My hope in sharing my story is that it will give you the courage to share your story. We can tell each other without concern of what others may think of us. We can express our pain and confusion and even moments of joy without worrying that someone may be upset. In this community, we can be our authentic self, and that will help us together to heal.

It doesn’t matter how long ago your loss was or who you are grieving over. You are welcome and we want to hear from you. When we tell our truth we free ourselves; when we listen to others we grow.

Please write back and tell your story.

Just to help prompt you, here are some of the themes in my story:
Shock and Trauma

Desperate for help

Wearing a mask

Loss triggers reliving the previous losses

Relationship and work addiction

Fear of grief, death, being alone

Copyright 2006-2007. Barbara Cole. All Rights Reserved

I believe that by sharing we help heal ourselves. For me, when I tell the truth about my grief it takes the fear and shame away.  It is easy to feel shame about grief because too often this is the message we get when we are told to ”move on”.  Usually the people telling us this are the ones who cannot handle our pain because it triggers theirs. 

The fear of grieving sometimes can be worse than the grief.  In this space, we are safe to share our emotions without being judged or measured.  There are no standards in this space except telling the truth, living with integrity, and not judg  ing others.When we have the chance to tell our truth it frees us from the need to please others and of being judged.  There is power in each of us telling our story, both in speaking our truth and listening to others.

We can learn from each other.   The result of telling our truth is that others are inspired or touched, and through that process we help others.  We get out of our pain not only by speaking the truth but by doing this in the presence of others.  In this process, we commit publicly to our own truth, own it and are responsible for it, and occasionally, inspire others to tell their truth. I am a grief expert by default.   I lost my sister when I was sixteen, my Dad when I was 32, and my Mom when I was 47 years old.  I believe I am an expert because not only have I survived these losses but along the way I have found a new part of myself. 

During my most recent grief process, I had to find a new way to grieve because the way I mourned in the past didn’t bring me to a comfortable or peaceful place.  I had searched and tried everything from therapists, groups, grief counselors, astrologers and spiritual healers.  Still I had no peace.   When I lost my Mom, my grief process was very different in that I was no longer afraid of the deep searing pain of mourning.  I accepted it as natural and I grieved deeply, fully, painfully, wonderfully, and thoroughly. 

It was very different than what others were used to.  I came to understand that the Kubler Ross discussion of the 5 stages of grief relate to the terminally ill patient, NOT the bereaved, and mistakenly our society and bereavement counselors still use this model. 

I also came to understand that I could no longer put on the mask of “I’m fine”.  My mask had crumbled and my pain was evident.  Some people thought I had fallen apart or were not “moving on” quickly enough.    I no longer cared about what others thought and I listened to myself.  I gave myself permission to grieve as I needed to, as difficult as that was for others around me.  I chose to give myself the love rather than make others comfortable.  It was a long lonely road I walked and ultimately I learned that it is a road one must walk alone.  It truly is a solo journey.  The road doesn’t stop, just the topography and geography changes.  The changes from grieving to healing are slow and sometimes infitesimal and not apparent to the naked eye.  The are usually apparent though to others who are grieving.  That small change when you can no longer remember your loved one’s voice or when you realize that missing them is not your waking thought. 

Why I didn’t disintegrate along the way is clear to me.  I believe it is because I chose to embrace my grief rather than shield myself that I gained strength.  Also it was because I stopped judging myself and letting others judge me and my progress.

I also believe that it was my willingness to love myself and give myself what I needed during this journey that helped me heal.  I removed the clock and the calendar from my mind, that timekeeper that marks passages and says where you “should be”.

Despite the “how to” books, there is no one way or right way to grieve.  It is an individual journey we go on and our grief reflects our life.  Ultimately, in giving ourselves Permission to Grieve we give ourselves the freedom to be fully alive. 

This is a hard time of year for so many people.  There already is enough stress shopping and going to functions.  the holiday decorations and lights, while beautiful, sometimes seem to be in stark contrast to what we feel inside.

For some of us, this time of year is bittersweet and filled with angst.  The family will get together…what family is left, and we notice how our family has changed.  The dynamics are different because our loved one isn’t there filling the seat and the role they play in our lives.

Each of us reacts in our own unique way and sometimes others don’t understand.  We may want to light a candle, change how we “always” do things, or not celebrate at all.   Some people prefer to pretend nothing has changed and that may frustrate us.

There is much written about the “empty chair” and how to “cope” during the holiday season.  My suggestion is not to go down the list of coping skills, but instead, listen to your own small voice.

You know best what you need to comfort yourself.  You know what will help you.  And if you don’t know, maybe it is the time to try with small steps to find out what that is. 

Some of us will call someone and say, I need to talk.  Some of us don’t have anyone who will listen.  Some of us will be angry that no one wants to mention our loved one’s name. Some of us will stay home alone because maybe it is better than the stress of putting on a mask.  Some of us prefer the company of others. Some of us will volunteer and help another person.

All of us have the right to feel our feelings during this time, ask for what we need, do not expect others to deliver, but give ourselves what we need.  We have the right to cry, to shout, to write, to call, to talk out loud, to question G-d, to be angry, to be sad, to be relieved, to be joyful. 

We have the right to be anything we want.

What do you want?

www.permissiontogrieve.com

I was at a cafe and the woman near me asked me a question about my computer.  that led to a conversation and she told me she was studying to be a doctor, probably a dermatologist so she could have time to have a family and not be on call.

 It was with trepidation that I asked her what training they get dealing with death, dying, and the bereaved.  Well, we have one class where we see terminally ill patients.

I thought of two things: ugh, those kids traisping in the room standing in the back while the physician examines someone we love…another indignity of those kids watching.

the other was to plant a seed:  “you know, if you learn about the dying process and how to talk to a family and get comfortable with death yourself, you could change someone’s life.

“but i won’t have to deal wtih that as a dermatologist”.

“oh really, what about melanoma?”

“hmmm”

“you could be the person who makes a difference in someone’s life for the rest of their life.  I’m not talking about the person who is dying; I’m talking about the family members who will remember everything you say and do forever”.

“oh. i didn’t think about that”.

It was awkward for me to say it.  I wasn’t all that comfortable, but I felt that if I planted a seed, maybe it would make a difference.

Last week, there was a group of us who met in Paris.  It was a rainy chilly night as each person walked in to meet others who walk the same path they walk.

 We were a group who on the outside seemed very different –different ages, sizes, shapes, colors, backgrounds.  We had different losses–some multiple, some recent, some long ago, and some that are imminent.

 It was clear everyone needed to talk.  It was clear that it didn’t matter how long ago their loss was, they still needed to talk.  It was clear that rarely was there an opportunity to speak openly and get what we needed to hear back.

In our group no one tried to solve anyone’s grief. There was simply a lot of heads nodding and “me toos”.   There was deep understanding in that room as we sat together.

There was a strong connection and warmth and a safe place to share our grief with others.  We simply walked side by side on our individual journey with grief.

A long time ago, I attended a bereavement group.  After the introduction, I sensed something wasn’t right.  It felt forced, or false to me.  I knew I would be perceived as challenging, but I had to ask the two women leading the group if they lost a close family member.

They swallowed, looked at each other, and each stumbled and said, well, no, but i have experience working with people who have. They went on to tell me their credentials–degrees, experience, number of years.

My face was impassive and I was waiting.  I was waiting to hear something that drew me in, made me think they had something to offer me.  I wanted to get something from them and from the group.  But they were leading people without having experience.

Grief is not like doing a business deal where you can take your experience from one job or one industry and easily apply it to another.  Grief is not like having 20 years of professional experience leading a team so you can work well with different types of people.  Leading grief groups without having lost a family member feels to me like a sighted person telling a blind person they know how it feels.

I understand we can empthathize with others and have our hearts go out to them.  I understand someone can study for many years and work with hundreds of people who are bereaved.  I respect their efforts but I don’t think they provide me with much.

Maybe because dealing with grief is not like going to the doctor to have something “fixed”.  Grief is an ongoing process that changes and evolves and never leaves us and travels with us on the different roads of our life.

What these facilitators brought was data and theories.  Process the 5 Stages of Grief; share your anger, most people feel…..

However, I believe what most people want is a safe environment to express themselves.  They want to be able to say hard things that sometimes plague them and make them uncomfortable.  They want to know other people may feel similarly.  They want someone to nod their head because they share the same experience, not because they are sympathetic.

What can a group do?  Help us to know ourselves better.  Listen to others who can validate us.  Hear others experiences which may shed light on our own.  Take control of our grief by throwing out the shame.  Stand tall and proud that we are grieving and not hide it.  Let us say what we need to say.  Not judge us for what it is that we do say.  Provide a safe environment where we can say what we feel without worry of repercussions.  A community of kindred spirits.  A place to cry without apologizing.  A place to be angry without recriminations.  A place to be sad and take off the mask.
I don’t believe in answers and 10 steps to success and the 5 stages of grief.  I believe in being open and authentic and vulnerable.  I believe in expressing pain and sorrow and joy and confusion.  I believe in the power of people listening to each other.  I believe in each of us finding our own path.   I believe in the importance of people supporting each other as they take each step on their individual journey through grief.

I wonder if she would have had the nerve to say something to me the few days before I got married when I was silently questioning whether to go through with it. I wonder if she would have had kids and what it would feel like to be an Aunt. I wonder if she would have married or just lived with someone because she was pretty unconventional.  But then again, how do I know she was unconventional just because she went protest marches and took acid and had a boyfriend with a motorcycle?  After all, it was the early 70’s and that was the conventional thing to do.

I wonder if we would have lived together in college in an apartment as we planned, or gone our separate ways. I wonder if she would have offered me to stay with her after I got divorced.   I wonder if she was alive when Mom, was sick which one of us would’ve given up our life to be the caregiver.  I wonder if she we would be close or estranged.  I wonder if we would have fought after Mom died about who gets the china.

I wonder what her taste in clothes would be now.   Would she dye her hair blonde to keep the gray away? Would she wax or shave? Would she go with me to a spa for a sister weekend or be living on a farm someplace growing organic vegetables?

I wonder if we would still look like twins and people would call me her name like they did for a year after she died and my heart would plunge each time. Would we still be the same size? Would we still want to share clothes? Who would initiate the phone calls and pay the higher telephone bill? Would she still play the flute? Would she still like to dance? Would she finally love me?  

When Mom died, I was sure I knew what to expect.  I had already grieved for my family before.  I clung to the paperwork of death to blunt the impact of pain.  I was truly alone without family and no one needed me.  For the first time in 9 years, I turned the telephone off when I went to bed, even though many nights I did not sleep.  I went to bereavement groups and discussed the stages of grief again.  Even in that group I still made everyone gasp when they heard I was the sole surviving member of my family.  Even in that group I made people uncomfortable when I told the truth. 

It was 3:45am and I was counting the lights outside my window to see how many other people were up.  The shock was wearing off and I was terrified.  What scared me most was that I had already tried everything there was to try.  For 30 years I had no peace with my grief and I was only 47 years old. 

As the sun rose, I decided to face my grief and all my losses, pain, and anguish by myself.   I wasn’t going to another group, therapist, or healer.  I didn’t know what would happen to me but it didn’t matter.  I was going to live with my grief and stop hiding and lying about it.  I mentally threw out the clock and the calendar. I was going to grieve however I needed to for however long it took.  If I died from it, so be it.  I gave myself permission to grieve. 

My grief was exposed.  There were times I stayed in bed and didn’t wash until a few days later when I had an urge to leave my apartment and take a walk.  I curled up in my bed sobbing with such force that my stomach hurt and I wondered if my neighbors heard me.  When I started to cry I was scared I wouldn’t stop.  After a few times crying loudly and deeply I discovered that I stopped when I was ready to stop.  The fear of my rawness diminished but my friends and extended family stopped calling so frequently.  My uninhibited expression of pain made them feel like a voyeur. 

I didn’t know how to pray.  I read prayers occasionally but I didn’t know how to turn to G-d.  It began as a conversation and sometimes turned into an argument.  One time, I simply said, “okay G-d, now what? How are you going to help me?” 
Sometimes I was angry, “why you did this to me.  Tell me what you expect me to do now.  Why are you putting me through such agony?  Hey, are you there”?  Other times I spoke softly and said “help me.  I have nothing left.  Please help me”. 
Sometimes it was a slow response, sometimes, no response, but eventually I did feel a comforting presence and a source of strength.  Whether that presence was G-d, my family, or from within me I don’t know.  I just knew that when I surrendered, I asked for help, and when I surrendered, I never felt alone.  

I was breaking every grief book rule about “getting back to life” and “moving on”.  I was not surrounding myself with people.  I wasn’t processing the Five
Stages of Grief.  I was not letting go.  In fact, I was holding on tightly to the freedom I found in grieving without boundaries.  I stopped being afraid that I may die from grief.  I no longer cared how long the sorrow stayed.  I stopped worrying if I would have friends and family again.  I was getting comfortable with my grief.  The more I stopped caring about what others thought, the more I cared about myself. 

Just a reminder:  on this blog, everyone’s loss is important.  We don’t grade or measure losses.  Your feelings a valid, valuable, and important and we want to hear them.  Please share your experience on the post or anything related to grieving you would like to express.