Shattering and Becoming WHOLE Again

Spring is coming; even though it is early March, green shoots are rising up from the damp soil. Birdsong has changed and we are collectively hoping for something positive to generate along with the change in seasons. At least I know I am.

I’ve been focusing on a project that’s been burbling just below the surface, sometimes bursting forth and sometimes lying dormant. Over the years it has metamorphosed from intense journal entries to a sort of memoir to a travel guide for the journey with no map. If you’ve ever grieved, you know what I mean. Now, I have committed to the project and in order to hold myself more accountable, I am going public with it.

It’s a book and its working title is Shattering Grief: Picking up the pieces to become WHOLE again.

My theme (my personal mission?) has always been working through those feelings of brokenness, the sense that your life is in shards after the death of someone so integral to you. That feeling of being shattered was so pervasive that it required a quest of repair. I wanted, no, NEEDED to feel WHOLE again. There have been so many discoveries during this process and the most wonderful one is that now, I feel relatively complete. Was that broken feeling just an illusion? In the same way that grief can masquerade as depression and insanity, perhaps it put on a grand costume of fractured mirrors.  Whether this was real or not, it required a lot of attention.  It compelled me to look at all the pieces of my life and my self and consider each one carefully. By considering the various roles I play in my life and in the lives of family and friends, the possibility of growth and even some change appeared.

Death often creates a sort of identity crisis. We can cope with this by considering who we thought we were and who we are now. We can use our relationship as the foundation on which to rebuild; to use qualities of our loved one as some of the bricks. We can enhance our own abilities and develop new interests. Slowly, we can begin to ask another question.  Who do I want to be? And how can I accomplish that?

The Art of Dying 5

The New York Open Center’s conference, provocatively titled, was an amazing experience. Rather than being about the process of dying, this conference offered stimulating investigation into the nature of reality and consciousness, asking the question, “Does consciousness continue after death?” Different viewpoints were explored – the Tibetan Buddhist view was represented by Robert Thurman and Kunchok Gyaltsen, a Tibetan herbal doctor. Thomas Moore talked about care of the soul, which he believes continues eternally.  Rabbi Simcha Raphael gave a lively talk about the transpersonal, Jewish/Kabbalistic view which had similarities to Tibetan teachings of the Bardo. Henry Fersko-Weiss gave a beautiful presentation on bringing the sacred back to the deathbed as he talked about End of Life Doula training.

While I have never been personally concerned with life after death, most of my clients are. There are so many different concepts; while humans have puzzled over this question for millennia no one can say with certainty that they have the answer. It is indeed hard to conceive that someone so vibrantly present can be completely absent, totally NOT after they die.  And since no one has ever truly come back to tell us, many people rely on faith and some, like me, don’t worry about it too much.

Dr. Eben Alexander had a lot to say about his near death experience and sounds very certain about what he feels is true.  It was fascinating to spend the whole weekend listening and discussing different beliefs and possibilities.  We were also treated to a scientific study on the single dose use of hallucinogens to assist cancer patients with existential dread and anxiety.  Dr. Stephen Ross from NYU Medical Center is about to launch a third study into this, which, along with a very intensive therapy model, seems to be quite effective.

Having recently left my job at the Hospice, this conference could not have come at a better time.  I reconnected with some old associates including my former mentor from my Masters program.  One of my recent colleagues joined me for a day.  New friends appeared and connected and I advocated strongly for the inclusion of bereavement work in any conversation about dying. 

To decompress, two new friends joined me for a romp in Central Park where we joyfully rode the Carousel and sang in Strawberry Field.

"Hope is as reasonable as despair"**

On Wednesday, my colleague spontaneously gave homework to our bereavement group. She asked each member to grab a pen upon waking in the morning and write down things they are grateful. In fact, she asked that we all write 10 grateful things every morning for a week.  My first reaction was “cool, what a great idea.” Then I thought, TEN? That’s a lot!!  

In this new series of group sessions, we’ve decided to turn to the subject of resilience a lot sooner. We find that if we wait until the last two sessions, our group members seem more resistant to closing the group, begging for more.  While we encourage telling their stories many times and completely endorse crying and expressions of despair as a necessary part of grieving, we also see our role as guiding our clients towards living again.  Grief processing is easier when it includes a positive view along with the sadness.  For example, flashbacks of the final moments and the shock of the death itself can be alleviated through remembering the good times, all the years of love.  Just as one can’t stay stuck in abject sorrow, keening and wailing without end, it is imperative to let it go for a while. Put the grief on the shelf for an hour or so and take a walk in the woods.  Don’t suppress your feelings but balance them with some small activity of daily living. Breathe.  Relax.  Laugh.  Be grateful.

When I woke up this morning it was with a rather ungrateful thought. I sat with it for a while, noticed it, then took out a journal.  I chose one from several years ago, with many blank pages.  The first pages were scribbled with a few random daily descriptions and one of my favorite poems by ee cummings: i thank you god for most this amazing day.  I smiled, picked up a green pen (for gratitude) and completed my 10 Grateful Statements.

What are you grateful for?  It doesn’t have to be a huge thing; my first statement was that I am grateful for morning birdsong, even in Manhattan.  I am grateful for each of my children of course, and I am grateful for my new career and the people I work with.  I am grateful for every insight I am privileged to witness from a person who is mourning and rediscovering the meaning of their life. 

Try it - tomorrow when you wake up, write down some Grateful Statements.  It doesn’t matter how many…

***from Healing after Loss, Daily Meditations by Martha Whitemore Hickman.

The Movement of Moving

The dust has settled and it feels like there is so much of it, as if it were rising in drifts up to my knees.  I am tripping over boxes, bags filled with off season clothes, suitcases half emptied because I have not decided what to unpack into. 

I have always been about movement – when I have something to say, I gesture, move, pantomime. In crisis I seek ways to move the energy, release negative and overwhelming feelings that are coursing through my body, mind and spirit.  I hate being stuck and while most of the past seven years have demonstrated steady movement, there is a part of me that was glued in place. Now, prying and wrenching, discarding and tossing, gathering and grumbling, I have moved.

The old place was a cocoon, dark and embracing. Nestled into a hill and facing north, its eyes were hooded with shades to keep out the chill. Even when they were rolled up, only dim light came in to the family room, the place we spent a lot of time. The living room was brighter but for some reason we did not use this room as much.  The kitchen had big windows, looking out on the hill and the fern forest in spring and summer, shaded by a black walnut tree and desiccated cedars, one of which hosts a swarm of bees. The new tenants are city folk and are concerned: will their son run into the road? Will the bees chase him?  "Just don't throw things at the bee hive," I advise, in my best country girl, nonchalant manner. 

In contrast, this house floods with light from early dawn till dusk. It is quieter here. At the old place, there was constant lawn mowing as if the neighbors were members of a secret competitive club, with a prize for how often one could mow. Red tractors, green ones, stand on the back mowers, which the neighbor across the street used while wearing a black back brace around his plaid shirt. My own John Deere stopped working years ago and the new lawn guy wears an acid green tee shirt as he walks behind his orange mower, delivered in a horse trailer.  At the new place, I have yet to hear anything more than birdsong, frogs and the cicadas right now, signaling another searingly hot day. Maybe the lawns are mowed by pookahs silently in the middle of the night. I have to admit it is pretty here. The deck is bordered by a small pond with pink water lilies tucked under a straggly wild blackberry bush. The land in back includes more than 50 acres of forest, wetland, hill and glen, with lovely mossy paths and tenacious trees growing out of granite cracks.

I took the long road home last night, winding around an old country highway, over the Bear Mountain Bridge. I drove past the road I lived on growing up, past the park where we'd go to see the bear cubs. It took me through the town where my eldest went to nursery school, past the turn off to our first house. It was as if I were moving through remnants of the past as I drove to the present.  Along with the boxes, pots and pans, my collection of colored crackle glass, hundreds of books, records and cds, I have moved with memories, carrying them in my heart, into this place of light and hopefully, new possibilities.

Life After Death

Working in an interfaith, spiritually centered Hospice affiliated with a Catholic Hospital, I hear many people talk about what they expect after death. They say with certainty that they know they will see their loved ones again, or they joke that the husband, mother or father is up there (pointing to the ceiling) having an argument with Aunt Elsie, or driving everyone a little crazy.  It's a comforting thought for believers.

I've also listened to grievers who are troubled by their beliefs. Some worry about their loved ones, for whom they put so much time and desperate effort in trying to keep comfortable.  One man said he spent most of his time praying for his wife, because he feared that she needed him.  This week, a woman said, weeping, that she had the unnerving feeling that her husband wanted her "up there" with him. It felt like a pull in his direction and was very disturbing. She was not interested in harming herself in order to get there but she had this very clear feeling and was troubled by it.  This was in Group and several other members offered comfort and suggestions for her. I asked her if she could turn it around and ask him to be present with her here, and she again said that she thought he wanted her to come to him. 

In my spontaneous Sagittarian way, I blurted out without thinking, "well, it's not very nice of him, is it!"  The woman, along with everyone else in the room burst out laughing.  I feared I had been too provocative, but really, it seemed to me that she is alive and should be free to live fully, after his death.  If there is some presence there calling her, where is he expecting her to go? It seems almost rude of him (if it IS him and not a turned around thought about giving up) after all those years of care she gave him.  It would be nicer for her to find ways to re-engage in her life now, despite the sorrow and loneliness.

I have been thinking a lot about Life after Death myself lately but not in the same way.  To me, life after death is what you do with your life after your loved one died.  Life is not a passive place in which to wait, although grief often feels like an empty room in which everything is askew.  It is up to us  to embrace life, reshape it, re-invest in activity, new endeavors, new friendships and maybe even new relationships.  Immediately after my husband died, I heard a voice in my head saying, "your life has radically changed. Now WHAT?"  This has been the motivating thought even when I had no answers about how to live and walked around for years in a life that felt like an alien landscape. 

It is not easy to rekindle a desire for living when all you can manage is the most minimal of activities.  But over time, life begins to be more comfortable, even interesting.  There is life after death, and it can be whatever you want it to be. It is yours to shape.  Make it beautiful, full and fun.