Greta

I don't think grief resolves. I think we hold it like a coin, flipping back and forth. I'm really trying to see and carry both sides of the coin like open palms. I am horrified to read about Marty's departure. She is irreplaceable. I am grieving.

My prayers and heart go out to you. Compound shocks, repeated thunder, no available shelter. There are many loving arms here. I come here to cry, and read beautiful thoughts by compassionate people. I am helped by the support others show others, as I am most pained by the harm others cause others. Nothing is worse than helpless waiting. There is nothing to do but breathe in and out. Remember to eat and above all else, protect your sleep, by whatever means necessary. All love, Greta

I too am tired of resisting the truth of impermanence and the reality of loss. I come here, read posts, cry, feel kinship in sorrow and occasionally shriek in shame and despair. Harry, your words are strong and go straight to the heart of my struggle. It is some sort of penultimate struggle to let go and let "God." I am grateful for all of you. Last time I was on, I deleted my post because I was embarrassed by my desperation. I have a "stop and start" style I do not like. I am unreliable.

I sold a house because of bad memories, too quickly and rather carelessly. I simply stayed in a motel for months and months relishing the simplicity of a suitcase. I simply ran. Planning is essential, and impossible at this moment. My heart goes out to you. Greta

Thank you for keeping us safe, Marty. I know of no other site (and unfortunately) not that many therapists that take care of their people with such diligence and constancy.

Happy Birthday Mary! Your posts have given me endless comfort. Do something outrageous today. xx

Dear People, I'm so sorry for the last post. I am heartbroken, and we all, all of us here, know that how one handles grief defines one's character. I didn't know how little character I had until I lost my mother, lost my family, lost my connection to some larger family of decent human beings. I'm sorry. Greta

Post deleted. I apologize ... don't know how to delete topic.

I haven't posted in a long time. Harry, your poem is powerful and true. Sadloser, you are not a loser though you have lost. I hear and I have known utter despair. My mother's death was an atomic bomb -- each family member's character revealed in the flash, each destiny determined by proximity to blast -- the actual caretaker is soaked with sweat and swims in "hot" rivers of radioactive tears with half-lives of 7 kazillyun dark-years. Harry, you got me started. My family blew up after my mother's death. I didn't want to see what I saw in the flash. I was surprised. I felt sorry for her in a way I never did when she was with me. I felt ashamed of my sisters with good reason. At first I wore their shame. I don't don that shroud every day now, though I am no example of shining recovery. My mother died on a plane 17 November 1998 with me on the other side of the bathroom door. We were on a bereavement flight back home to Denver, having just buried Mom's brother and my closest, closest most beloved Uncle Bill. They died exactly one week apart, exactly at 9:15 at night, and boy-oh-boy did my more "fundamentally" religious family object to my impression that she was simply taken up to be with Bill and Daddy; Daddy, whom we had nursed for a long eight years at the farm. I apologize for rambling, but I am beginning to realize that what I saw back then and what I felt back then, how my people behaved back then -- I have spent years and years wishing my sisters were different, and they, of course, are the same, as am I. I've done amazing things in the intervening years. Despair propelled me into deeper study, travel, originality. But every Christmas I am in the States, I am the little Matchstick Girl, my nose against the window. Truth demands, after so many years, admitting to myself that death is surrounded by such a great variety of losses and broken bits that I cannot and time did not mend my family. Sadloser (just sad and [temporarily] lost) great flowers can grow from despair. The most beautiful flowers. I know all about the weeds ... but bit by bit ... your roots will hold and your blooms will thrive. I am in a season of grief, and the weather forecast is shamefilled sleet and slippery perspective. I can't wait for sunshine and summer.

tytybaby, I too am sorry for your loss. I kept a voice mail message from my mother on my home phone until I sold my house. Deleting is difficult for me. I don't want to delete anything connected with her. Elaine, Such good advice ... leave it for now. Gamer, Your posts are so very sweet and caring. You've a pure heart. Jude, I hope you're well. You're so right about Marty ... she's an intuitive healer, isn't she? She quite literally saved my life. I have been so very, very angry, my loss was so long ago, I thought I had no place to go. Marty welcomed me so warmly and firmly, her suggestions so spot-on and re-directive ... I too am grateful for our loving listener and guide. Marty, Your warmth and wisdom support all of us. You're a wonderful teacher. My gratitude is boundless. I met a librarian today whose grandchild was murdered by the father. They still have the trial to go through, and even though we're strangers (were strangers) she asked me over for coffee next week. Somehow, my re-cycling period has opened doors in my own heart. Such an encounter might have frightened me before, but I can channel responses from loving hearts on this site. I'm learning to be open again. I referred her to this site. I'm so very, very grateful for this site and the people who come here. I don't judge myself so harshly after reading others' stories. I'm less afraid, even hopeful. Greta

Dear Lee, I'm so glad you found your way here. You will be made wonderfully welcome, I assure you. I too lost too many people too close together. My most favorite uncle died, despite my desperate deal-making with God, and on the way home from the funeral, Mom died on the plane. They were best friends, and died a week apart, almost to the minute. I felt like he lifted her off the plane (from his mouth to God's ear). I will always miss them; they were my best friends (and greatest champions). My kids are slightly older than you. I was away in Europe for a long time and we too drifted apart. I guess I took for granted that I would always be their mom, no matter what. There are great people on this site with lots of comfort and wisdom. I'm learning a lot from them. It helps. You can say anything you like, no matter your mood. Up one day and down the next -- all is normal. You sound like a great guy. Keep writing. I'm a beginner here, and I'm not very skilled at offering comfort, but I'm so very, very sorry for your loss, and your "occupational" isolation. Breathe deeply, eat well, and smile at strangers. I wish I were better at this. If you were standing in front of me, I'd give you a hug. Crying is good. Grieving takes it's own course, has its own clock. You're in my prayers. Greta

Dear All, Has anyone advice on helpless rage? I need spiritual and practical advice. I can't handle medication. I tried Prozac ages ago (while nursing my Dad) and stopped because I became obsessed with my mother's vodka (I'm not much of a drinker, but ........ wow! I couldn't get enough) AND obsessed with suicidal ideas. Years later, I tried Paxil, and three weeks later slit my wrists. Peter Breggin http://www.breggin.com/ is largely responsible for exposing risks to adults. I'm sure it works for some people, but not for me. I know the medication issue is taboo here ... just relating my own experience. SSRI's are not an option. Nor is Xanex or Valium (and it's babies, Ativan, etc.). I like those drugs, I like 'em a lot, but they only mask the pain (for me). Ativan is a great drug, will stop a seizure in it's tracks, helps with sleep -- just not good for me, except temporarily. I have to find a way to overcome my anger. I am eating myself alive with rage and sorrow. I was my parent's caregiver for many, many years. My older sisters really didn't show up, except to criticize. My oldest sister still maintains I am responsible for my mother's death, on a plane, on a bereavement flight home from her brother's funeral. Mom had a stroke on the toilet, with me waiting on the other side of the door. Waiting, waiting. Since then, I have been cut out of the family. No Christmas, no Fourth of July, no Thanksgiving. I wasn't included this year either, and I begged. I begged and begged, and cried and cried. Death is unfair, and Life is unfair, and I have slipped back into older, darker places that I thought were on a high shelf, dealt with and put away. I am ashamed of my anger, and ashamed of my inability to let go of people who don't want me. I understand, because I hate myself as much as they hate me. I know this is an awful post. Please don't send me away; I will listen to any advice any of you have. Please don't send me away. I am ashamed of my failure to cope. I've got to get strong, and get strong quick. I'm ashamed of my helplessness when I used to be so strong. Please don't send me away. Greta

Dear Susie, Thank you for your beautiful post. It made me cry. Everything seems so purposeless sometimes. How beautiful of the family to set a place at the table to honor your husband and his gift of life. Imagine such joy born of such sorrow. Truly a beautiful post. Bless you. Greta

On my first trip to London, a very dear friend took me out on a nightwalk to listen to the blackbirds ... tiny creatures with yellow eyeliner and beaks, who can imitate anything -- babies crying, conversation, other animals. They belong to the same Genus as our North American robin (though smaller), and lay blue eggs. I loved their mysterious nightly gatherings on rooftops and trees, discussing politics, poetry and lost loves. I am convinced they possess language and are ardent debaters. One morning, I heard a bird caught in the plumbing shaft of my building, calling, calling ... I know this is very dark, and I apologize for that, but sometimes things happen so suddenly and so finally and so tragically. One mis-step and the world disappears. Blackbird blackbird caught, down the shaft ringing through the building calling, talking to his friends chirruping her children oh blackbird, my Europe bird of Plzen, Prague and London from tree and ledge, in human tones holds forth the robin's cousin cousin of my mama's robin singing in a pit echoing through the pipes and walls of panelak and heart sweet doomed soul, how far the light too high; there is no purchase. one mis-step and the world disappears and the dark sinks its claw in the eye One flawed breath while singing or soaring or dreaming of trees that grow in the sky one heartbeat, then nothing. Death is a seal. no blinking or hand-clasp or breathing a moment of error or anger or terror that cannot be altered or dyed or made smaller by drying or cleaning or speaking or time and time is so short, when everything's lost the light can't be reached and there's no hope of dawn eggs yet unlaid and flights yet unflown and hours to love and to sing the last songs Greta Hansen, 2007 panelak: stacked flats, apartment building

Dear Tigereye, This may sound like a crazy idea, certainly not traditional, but what if you and your mother walked down the aisle together? When the minister asks, "Who gives this woman?" she would reply, "Her father and I." Then I imagine some close male relative helping her to her seat, perhaps her father, brother or son, holding her hand, symbolizing an unbroken circle of strong women and protective men. And there is Maria Von Trapp (remember The Sound of Music?) who triumphantly marched herself down the aisle as an independent woman choosing to unite her life with the Captain. Which song were you thinking of? After you and your husband dance, perhaps you could take the mike and smile and say, "This one's for you, Daddy. Come on, everybody join in! Dance with us!" And I imagine all the guests (even those who don't dance) getting up and dancing for your beloved dad and dancing to the blossom of new love, another circle and a joyous tribute. I'm so sorry for your pain. He'll be with you. He'll always be with you. Greta

Hello Everyone, Dear, dear Marty, thank you for finding this beautiful, unvarnished, beyond helpful conversation. http://www.womensconference.org/the-womens-conference-2009/video/grief-healing I have been so lonely and so trapped in multiple griefs. The raw heart and pure truth of Elizabeth Edwards rivets me, pivots me, redirects my attention from shame and blame and blackest regret to . . . to a reference point of observant sanity. I feel "mothered" by Elizabeth Edwards. The complexity of her grief, the compounded grief, the never-ending nature of grief . . . I felt a fraction more courage. Courage means heart. I feel as though she took my face in her hands and gently turned it toward the light in the window. The light in the window is more like moonlight than sunshine. She said we are grieving our lives as we knew them. I suddenly realized that I have unwittingly achieved a "new normal," and that I am still struggling to accept and understand my new reality. I can make new choices, take a different road. Listening to these four women talk makes me feel my interior struggle is worthy, and natural. Necessary. I gave up about a month ago. I took a bunch of pills and drank a bunch of wine and hoped for the best, having insufficient amounts of each. I prayed for an end to pain and a smiling reunion with people who love me, loved me so well and so constantly. I walked into the darkness, not (as Maria Shriver spoke of) the water. I loved Katie Couric's address. As with Elizabeth Edwards, I like how her mind works. Katie said to herself, "Well, I've been successful before . . ." A therapist once advised me to behave myself into a new way of thinking. This time, I have to learn to communicate again. I've been silent for so long. I've never really told my story. I'm missing some essential, required honesty in my life. I am tired of waging perpetual war with devils more powerful, poisonous and persistent than I. I feel better now. I have to start somewhere, and I have to stop thinking I am a "strange" person. I am just a person. I want to learn to appreciate myself again, to see myself as my mother saw me, as her brother my beloved Uncle Bill saw me, as my children once saw me. I need to feel better about myself. Alice Miller says that great pain requires enlightened witnesses. That is what you all do for each other here. I would like permission to join you, despite my inability to overcome up to this point. I don't know where to begin, but I've truly no other place to talk about it. It's not only a new year, it's a new decade, and I would like it to be a time of truth, light and water in my life, each of which were, at one time, as taken for granted as my clear Colorado air, sun and sky. I want some of it back, even if I must enjoy it differently. Thank you for listening. I admire you all. Greta

Dear T, I felt what you feel. I have a sister seventeen years older than I, whom I thought of as a second mother. Reading your post, I recalled our first Thanksgiving after Mom died. I wanted to set a place at the table for Mom, which idea she termed "ghoulish." I don't understand why people react so differently (or should I say "indifferently") to death. I had a history professor who theorized that there were two types of people, in fact two types of cultures: Rememberers and Forgetters. I remain intrigued by this idea, as each has its virtues. I am a rememberer. I deeply resented the forgetters. My oldest sister's gift to me was a Tony Robbins seminar (motivational business speaker) ... afterwards my brother-in-law told me I was the "chairman of my own board." The message seemed to be, "Move on! Don't look back!" And don't come to us for guidance or assistance. My sister and her husband began dating when I was three-years-old. I had thought of him as a big brother ... My friends, my family (other than my daughter) were not able to comfort me. My friends didn't know Dad, and each family member had their own relationship with him, and their own reactions to death, some of which pained and aggravated. I found comfort in my mother's friends. I know it's different with men ... harder to get them to reminisce ... but when my father died I wanted to hear stories about him. It helped me so very much ... and maybe them too. Some of the stories were very funny, and almost all of them shed new light on my father's life ... his life apart from his family, his life as simply a man, a farmer, a politician, a card-sharp. You're in my thoughts. Greta

These articles are great, Marty. But your own words are very dear to me: those who love deeply grieve deeply, to paraphrase. However belatedly, I have much to learn from you and everyone else here. Thank you for helping us. When my daughter was twelve, one of her classmates was killed in a bus accident on a school trip here in Boulder. Kevin was Rosie's only child, and she runs a grief group here in Boulder. I admire both of you. Thank you. Greta

My oldest sister (seventeen years older) slapped my daughter less than a week after her beloved grandmother's death. Snap out of it! She suggested EMDR. Five weeks later Ingrid was in the hospital with her first manic episode. My story is so dramatic I fear I will be expelled should I write about it. And so long ago. Perhaps I can serve as an example of failing to transcend the events of Nov. 17, 1998. We were on our way home from my deeply, dearly beloved Uncle Bill's funeral, and Mom was feeling ill. I took her to the toilet and ... I still worry when people take a long time in public restrooms. My mother and my uncle were extremely close. They died exactly one week apart, almost to the minute. My daughter did CPR on her dead Grammy the last 45 minutes of the bumpy dive into Denver. My sisters were sitting in the front of the plane. They never came back to look at Mom. My oldest sister hissed, several times, "What did you do to her?" I felt, I feel, that her adoring brother just lifted her off the plane. From his mouth to God's ear, perhaps. Dad suffered; I had to be grateful that Mom's exit was swift. I was so overwhelmed by subsequent events ... clearing out the farm they had worked together for sixty years, my daughter's hospitalization and recovery, my recent divorce ... I just kept thinking she was with the angels. I still think so. Just after, I spoke with an old friend, a devout Christian, who was horrified by my suggestion that my mother was simply "taken up." Who do you think she was? she said. An Old Testament saint? That's blasphemy! I adored my uncle, and my mother, who was my partner in so many ventures, including caring for Dad. My uncle and my mother were my best friends. I am here because I've just returned from four years teaching in Europe. It's hard to come home to a home I don't recognize. Denver is the next L.A. Boulder has changed beyond all recognition. I wonder if the farm is covered with houses. I don't like to go back home. My little town of 1500 town and country folk is well over 20,000. Things change, Kundun. I read this at my mother's memorial, a favorite of hers and mine. I carry her heart in my heart. Her heart is my heart. i carry your heart with me i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) ee cummings http://www.poemhunte...eart-with-me-2/ Grieving takes place in episodes, in my experience. I'm grieving far more than my mother, but my life tilted on that plane, and I've never really stood upright again. Greta