letting go of grief

Me and death go back a long way.

Death has played a big part in shaping my ability to face every day with a positive attitude and general tendency to look on the bright side of life. But I've noticed that death has also spread a grey cloud that's been niggling away at my thoughts for a while now. Bringing me down when I'm alone, and making it harder and harder to be that bundle of happy.

After much reflection I'm now aware that I've been grieving, and for longer than I realized. I've taken the time to process this and the act of writing and sharing these thoughts is part of the process that will help me breath and let it go.

The initial impact of this grief hit me when the tsunami wave hit Thailand and surrounding shores in 2004. We were visiting family in the states for the holidays and while we were there paid no attention to any news at all. A media blackout to relax and enjoy our stay.

One night in bed I just started bawling. Uncontrollable sobs wrenching me and my heart feeling crushed. I had no idea why. Poor Mark worried he or someone had done something to upset me, and perhaps I was not being truthful when I said "I don't know what's wrong, but I feel so sad. Like I'm drowning in grief." For hours that night I cried without knowing why my mind was full of images of countless people screaming out for loved ones they couldn't find.

When we returned home and saw a news story on the devastation that the tsunami had caused days before, Mark noted that the time the wave hit was when I began losing myself in tears. I was stunned. Like the collective grief of the victims of that wave had washed across the pacific and found me unawares in Washington state.

The feelings from that moment were so intense they linger today, and have become a piece of my ongoing grief for the turmoil people continue to face from war and environmental chaos on a regular basis around the world.

That night the wave of feeling was like collecting all of the grief I had experienced with death over my lifetime hitting me at once...multiplied exponentially.

My experience began with the smell of death when I was around 9 years old. There was a house that kids in my neighbourhood claimed was haunted. A small bungalow that was run down and very neglected looking, we would tip toe around this place now and then trying to see if we could find any sign of life inside...worried we might get caught by a witch!

But one day we noticed the house had a bad stench we didn't want to get near anymore. Not long after, we passed by to find an ambulance taking away a covered body and heard a grown up nearby filling in the neighbours on how the old woman who lived there had died, and how no one knew until she started decomposing and the mail carrier reported the smell.

The lesson that I learned from that experience was that I didn't ever want to become old and lonely. To die and have no one who missed me enough to realize I wasn't around anymore.

A few years later was the first death of someone I cared about when I was 12. She was 13 and we were hanging out at the park across from her house when she suddenly slumped and dropped to the ground. As soon as I realized she was unresponsive I ran to her house to alert her parents and call an ambulance.

Her death from a brain aneurysm taught me the lesson that life could end in a moment - for no apparent reason even. This was when I consciously chose to enjoy every day and make the best of it no matter what. Maintain an attitude of gratitude for every experience I live through.

By the time I chose to move to Vancouver in '97 at the age of 24, I had mourned the loss of more than 30 people who died from accidents, suicides, murders, illnesses and disease like aids and cancer in only a dozen years. After my arrival on the west coast there was a lucky seven years when no one I knew passed away...but then one of my inspiring mentors lost her struggle with cancer when it came back a third time, and soon after another inspiring mentor died from a heart attack. Then the wave. Death was back. A slow trickle over the years.

I thought I had stopped counting once more than 40 people had passed away, but early in September there was a day when I received news of two amazing people dying on the same day (along with a series of other bad news tales, too much bad news for one day). One from a random accident and one who lost their fight with cancer. I suddenly knew I was one death away from losing 50 friends in my lifetime, and I've been raw with emotion and on the verge of tears non-stop ever since.

Last week I said goodbye to the soul of a generous and kind man who was that 50th person I've been lucky enough to know before their passing, and I was laughing and chatting with him less than an hour from the time of his stroke. "see you next week"

I wonder how it is possible to have mourned the loss of 50 people. Old and young, from all walks of life, before I have even hit 40. Family, close friends, mentors, and my first true love.

Whenever I start to relax and forget about death, it comes back to take another life. Living in a peaceful corner of the world, I hate that I have still come to fear the next day I will receive news of someone dying. The downside to life as a social butterfly who loves meeting new people and who builds strong connections with others so easily.

The many memorials/funerals/wakes I've attended have taught me that death is a fact of life...but it's one that sucks. Sucks air from your lungs and makes breathing difficult when it's someone close to your heart. Wreaks havoc on emotions and mental health while grief has you in its clutches. The passing of even a casual acquaintance can shatter your world for a while when you have become so dependent on there presence in some way. That smile, now only a memory.

The somberness of a funeral is darkest when the loss of life seems meaningless. Random accidents that rob a life too quickly are dark, but not as dark as suicides where every person there wonders if they could have done something/said something differently to make that person choose life. Celebrations of long lives well lived are full of joyful tears to accompany the sorrow. Those who pass from disease usually have the benefit of time to say farewells before they go. Bittersweet because their death means an end to suffering they endured before passing.

Painful and tragic - every death - to those who miss them.

But if you are fortunate enough to have a network of caring around you, the days will slowly get easier. Grey cloud of grief in my head has not been able to cover the daily light I have from shiny happy people around me. That is why it took me so long to realize it was intense grief I was battling inside.

Another part of my grief comes from confronting the reality that I'm now at the age where my close friends are worrying about/suffering heart attacks and other illnesses. One of my best friends, an incredible force of positive energy to all who know him, had a heart attack last year which snapped me out of denial and into my own mid-life reality.
Cancer still consumes more and more people I know (themselves or their loved ones) and many of the elders in my life have reached that age which statistics prepare us for as the end of the average life span.

With all this in mind, my gratitude for every day I can get with friends and family is hard to express.

The biggest grief is my worry over things I can't control for the life of my daughter. Every year she makes it to another birthday celebration I feel blessed that she made it past the lifespan of another child I've known that died too young. This dread will follow me her whole life, but I will have to keep letting her go every day to live her life anyways. The most concise quote I have ever found to descibe the emotions of parenthood:
"Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body."  ~Elizabeth Stone.

My memory of my young friends death went through a perceptual shift once Sasha was born. Standing with her dad while he was on the phone with the ambulance, for the first time I went from simply watching her mom through the window, holding Tammy in her arms. To my ears inside the home, her howls were silent. Now, my heart shatters at what that moment was like for her, and I can hear those screams to the heavens. Worse is when I think of myself ever in that position.

I have an abundance of gratitude for every day that Sasha (and every child and youth in our family tribe) continues to grow, flourish and stumble through life. When words fail me all I can do is get in as many hugs as I can.

I know I will continue to have reason to grieve in the future, but the cloud that has been casting shadows in the back of my mind does not feel like it is suffocating me anymore. The past couple of years of writers block have been due to this wall of grief I couldn't get around/through/over/under. Turns out it wasn't just a wall, it was a mountain disguised as a series of bumps in the road. The summit has been passed and now I'm ready to roll with what lies on the other side.

A determined daily practise of reflecting on the countless things I'm full of gratitude for is my key. I love my family, friends, community, where I work - everything. This is what has always kept me afloat. Its hard to really be sad when you have so much in your life that genuinely makes you happy. The good news I have never lost sight of that. And now that I have acknowledged the grief that was building within me, I can focus on writing about the positive stuff again.

One day at a time...grateful as always to all of you who share your smiles, hugs and presence with me and help make my life totally worth living. :)