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Some Thoughts For Those Whose Grief Is Relatively New


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Dear friends,

Jane died 15 days before Christmas in 2010. We buried her a week before Christmas. That first Christmas was nightmarish. I spent it with my father outside Seattle. He'd lost my mother to Alzheimer's 10 months before. It was our first Christmas for both of us without our other halves.

My father had a stroke in August. He was braindead before my plane took off and body dead before it landed.
This year was my fifth Christmas without Jane--and the first I spent in the house Jane and I built together. I went out to be with friends Christmas Eve and went to a Methodist church service. I knew those things were purely to get me out of the house for a few hours that night. Neither Jane nor I were particularly religious in any traditional sense.
The next day, I had my in-laws in for Christmas dinner. I surprised them with a couple of presents. They left about 3 p.m. Jane's father was released from a rehab facility the day before. He has prostate cancer that has metastasized to his bones. He tires easily.
I watched "It's a Wonderful Life" Christmas night and sat for a time in the glow of the Christmas tree. Jane made me promise I would always have a tree--even that first year. Gradually, I have dressed the house for Christmas more and more since then. It is hard to do, sometimes, but I do it anyway.
For many of you reading this, your losses are fresh. You are trying to adapt yourself to the most horrible losses imaginable--and there is no easy way to get there. Holidays can be the worst because they have so many memories and triggers built into them. But sometimes the "ordinary" days can be just as difficult.
I am not a grief counselor but I have been at this for a very long time. I've listened to a lot of folks who understand this state far better than I do. They have been certified as grief counselors as well as going through their own grief. And I remember well what they told me in the early days after Jane's death.
First, it is OK to cry and feel miserable--and to feel that way for a very long time. People talk about the "Year of Firsts" as though once you've been through each of the events in a 12 month cycle you are magically OK--that you are back to who you were. For some folks, this may be the case. But for most--especially if you had a good relationship with your loved one--it doesn't work that way.
You are never going to be who you were before they got sick. You've lost a major part of the life you had and of the person you were together. "The deeper the love, the deeper the grief," is the reality. When someone says to you that you should be over your grief by such-and-such a time, they are generally people who have not lost someone important to them in the way your spouse was important to you. They've read an article or a book or taken a course and think they understand. Most of the time, they really have no idea.
But while you are never going to be the same, that does not mean you will never be happy again. Right after Jane died I didn't think I would ever smile again, let alone laugh. But the smiles did come back--as did the laughter. I am never as happy as I was when she was alive--but the grinding sorrow and depression have lifted to a great enough extent that I feel alive again. The holidays--Christmas, Halloween, her birthday and our anniversary, in particular--remain especially difficult, but I no longer feel I am drowning most of the time.
You do get better at coping as the months and years pass.
You can speed that up in several ways. Not fighting with your feelings and trying to control them is the first step in that. Grief often comes in waves and all any of us can really do is ride them out. Fighting your grief is like fighting the undertow: fighting it will just make things worse. Let yourself have that good cry when you need to. You will feel better afterward.
Crying, of course, is more dehydrating than people realize. It is important that you drink plenty of water--especially in the first months when the tears are falling like a torrential downpour. Avoid alcohol, however. It is a depressant and will only make you feel worse. I didn't have so much as a beer in the first 14 months after Jane died. Even now, I drink alcohol sparingly.
Crying also burns huge amounts of energy. That means eating properly is important. Unfortunately most of us bury ourselves in comfort foods when we are stressed or--worse--eat nothing at all. You want to establish good eating habits as quickly as possible. Have a good breakfast, a good lunch, and a good dinner every day. Begin cooking for yourself as soon as possible--even if you are cooking only for yourself and hate every minute of it. It will give you better portion control and make you feel like you have regained control over at least one aspect of your life.
Gaining control over your life is an important thing. Grief makes us feel like everything is out of control. Start small in regaining control. When you get up in the morning, make the bed, pick up the bedroom, take a shower, shave and have breakfast. Little acts of control like this are the beginning of regaining control over your life. The sooner you begin to establish regular habits, the better it will be for your state of mind.
One of the toughest patterns to re-establish is regular sleep habits. I'm still wrestling with that four years out. You don't want to go to bed because if you do, you have dreams. You don't want to get out of bed, sometimes because of the dreams and sometimes because of the corrosive reality that awaits you. But I set the alarm every night and try to get up at the same time every morning. And I try to go to bed the same time every night. The former is easier than the latter--at least for me.
Get exercise regularly. It doesn't need to be strenuous. I try to walk for an hour every day. In bad weather, I drive to a local mall and walk there. In good weather, I go out my front door and walk through the neighborhood. Exercise releases endorphins into your bloodstream that make you feel better. Even a half hour walk gets them cooking through your system. Do see your doctor before you undertake any kind of new exercise program.
Join a grief group. Your local newspaper will have listings for groups in your area--as will your local hospice organization. Many hospitals and cancer facilities sponsor groups. Just talking with other people who are going through what you are going through can be very helpful. There are a number of groups available online as well, though there is nothing like being in a physical group where you can receive and give hugs. Online groups, however, are especially good when a huge wave of grief hits you at 2 a.m.
For me, one of the toughest things was the social loss. Jane was not just my wife, she was also my best friend. We did everything together. I try to have at least one social event every week--even if it is just going out for coffee with someone. I do lots of volunteer work, in part, for the same reason. Much of my work is cancer-related, so it really does double-duty. I am avenging Jane's death and getting some human contact at the same time. I didn't think about the social aspect of that work when I started doing it, but the social aspect does help me get through the rough patches.
One of the problems we all face is that the grief really gets worse just about the time everyone around us has gone back to their daily routines. Their lives get back to normal just about the time the shock wears off for us and we enter the real heart of our loss. Finding something to do to help others can provide us with social outlets beyond our traditional circle of friends.
Another thing I find helpful is writing. Sometimes I write for no greater purpose than to move my grief from inside me onto the page. Keeping a journal can be a good way of doing that. You can write things there you don't want others to hear or see. You can rage against the gods, the doctors, the insensitive person who asks three months in if you are going out with anyone yet....
That's another thing you are going to encounter. Sometimes people can be so insensitive you can't stand it. Most of the time that insensitivity comes from their ignorance. Most people see TV and film as reality. There, grief is over in an hour or two. It just doesn't work that way for most of us.
There are others who try to compare this loss to a divorce. One of my brothers did that to me barely a month after Jane died. He'd had a divorce many years before. He did not see why I was not already out there dating. He didn't understand that while he and his wife stopped loving each other, Jane and I hadn't. That alone makes the situation different. But people don't see that.
In fact, rushing into another relationship is frequently a bad thing. You are wounded and vulnerable and incapable of making a rational decision about financial matters, let alone emotional ones. I swore off making major financial decisions for a year after Jane died--a vow that has lasted until at least now as I write this, with the exceptions of getting my will written and committing as much as I can toward NET cancer research.
I'll also admit to having had a number of crushes in the last two years. I have acted on none of these because I still feel emotionally too fragile to do so. After four years and 19 days, I'm still wearing the wedding ring Jane put on my finger 25 years, three months and 27 days ago.
I hope those of you who are relatively new to grief will find what I've written above useful. Grief is not a sprint. It is not a marathon--though it may be an ultra-marathon. But there is no finish line and there are no prizes for those who finish first. And unlike a competitive race, we can help each other get through it.
Peace,
Harry
Note: I've been thinking about writing this piece for several months. Eventually, I think it will find its way, in some form, into the book I started on earlier this month--likely as a closing chapter. If those of you with more experience can think of things I should talk about here that I haven't, let me know. Marty and Mary, if you can find a broader use for this, feel free to do so.
--H.
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Harry, This is beautifully written and filled with sound advice. Thank you for sharing your experiences and wisdom with us all, and for another glimpse at your work in progress.

fae

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Well spoken, Harry, thank you for taking the time to put this into words. It is so validating to those whose grief is raw still.

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What a beautifully written piece. I am new to this journey. I lost my husband in September. I miss him terribly, we were more than husband and wife, best friends. There are many confusing things that go on with your feelings, whether they are right, wrong, too long, overwhelming. This piece brings such good advice, validation and most of all a great sense of comfort. I especially love the phrase 'the deeper the love the deeper the grief'. It reminds me I am in such pain because of the amazing love we shared. I thank you for posting this. I think you really should include this in your book. I cannot wait to read it. Thank you again. I wish you peace and comfort.

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hellow Im grief almost 8 years and it hurts especialy this days your post puts in words all my feelings Im sorry that I can not use the language so I can write what I feel and think.Thank you for beeing here I do read all posts.Old friend from far away Teny

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Hi Teny, so good to hear from you, I was just thinking of you the other day and here you appear! Wondering how you're doing. You do well with your English, we can always understand you. Have wondered how you're doing with the Greek economy, I hope your dishes are still selling. I remember they were beautiful. It's been 9 1/2 years for me...it seems you go so far and then it doesn't seem to change much after that, what you have is what you live with. The early years were really hard. I will miss my George until the day I die but I've had to learn to live with what is now.

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happy new year to all my far away friends..Kay thank you for remembering my countrys broblems.economy is a desaster we are now having elections with great fear that the communist party is going to winn.Im trying to keep my workshop working but I fear not for very long.Beeing active gives me and creative is keeping me alive .When I dont work my mind wondera around memories and the life that is gone for ever.Please pray for my country.Love from far away.Teny

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Teny, every time I hear about Greece in the news, I pray for your country and for you...and that is nearly every day. Yes, the Greece economy is affecting all of us as we have the world trade now. It must be especially hard to be there and see the changes in your country. Pray for our leaders as well, sometimes I worry...we need someone who is especially good with foreign policy.

I, too, love being creative, although I haven't been able to as much the last few months I've been ill. Hope 2015 is a better year!

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  • 2 weeks later...

Harry, your words are so eloquent. I am very new to this horrible grief... 3 1/2 days since losing my wife of 26yrs this April. I read all your words. I will have to re read them numerous times. Right now, comprehending anything much is horribly trying.

Thank you for writing this.

Butch.

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Dear friends,

Thank you all for your kind words. I've been meaning to write this piece for about a year now. It seemed to me that we needed some sort of first aid kit for those newly arrived here. We all write similar things for each person as they arrive, but that means they have to wait for our response--and I'm not sure that is always a good thing. Of course codifying that response in this way has it's own weaknesses.

Butch and Shalady, you--and those like you--are the people I really see as the main audience for this kind of piece. You are in the early days of your grief and are just beginning to come to terms with all the nastiness of those times. I hope that as you discover things you wished you'd known that you will let me know, either here or privately, what they are so I can add them to later versions.

I've also posted this on a grief group specifically for NET cancer caregivers who have lost loved ones to that foul disease that took Jane from me. I'm hoping they will find it useful as well. It gets posted there with a link to here, since that group has no professional counselors monitoring it.

Peace,

Harry

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Harry, my dear, since you've already granted your permission for me to reprint, I do intend to post your eloquent piece on the Grief Healing Blog (as part of our "Voices of Experience" series) some time in February. I will let you and all our members know when it is up.

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I have lost all words. And the tears seem to have found me after four days since my love gained her wings. I am speechless, helpless, and lost. I am not one to cry. Yet here I am sobbing. I am the one to fix things. I can't fix anything now...

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Allow the tears, dear Butch. They are part of the healing process. You have just gone through the most terrifying event of your life. Mary was your other half and that will never change. The reality of this loss is too much for you to bear at one time so the awakening will come to you as you are able to endure it. There is nothing wrong with tears.

Right now it is important for you to rest, eat well, hydrate with water, and allow yourself to sit quietly in your pain.

I am so sorry that you are now dealing with your Mary’s death. There is nothing anyone can do to ease your pain but we can be here with you as you walk this grief journey. You are not alone. Those of us who have gone through this will not ever get tired of sitting with you.

What Harry has said is what many of us have gone through. Later, much later you will begin to find the words. Right now it is fine for you to be as you need to be.

Anne

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Dear Butch, you have gone through so much, in a very short space of time. You must allow yourself to cry, and to grieve. If you read my posts, you know that it does get manageable, and that someday you will be able to think about, and talk about Mary without the tears. Right now you need those tears. And you know you always have our support and prayers.

QMary

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Butch,

Let yourself cry, the tears are needed to release all that you feel inside of you. We will continue to be here, when you are ready.

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I consider myself a strong person. I took care of my husband for several years. I was happy to see to it that he was taken care of and happy. I was strong and confident. I was able to make good decisions. Now he is gone I am no longer strong. I find it difficult to make a decision. I second guess everything. I find I am hesitant and afraid. I no longer have self confidence. So we not only lose our spouse, we also lose part of ourselves. As if we were one and so now we are half. I wonder if we ever grow after this. I can't imagine the future without him and maybe that is a good thing. That way I don't have to think about it. I don't know. This is so heartbreaking

.

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Dearest Butch, we all know that place of such utter loss and feeling helpless. It is a loss so deep and you are never alone in it, even when you feel so. The way through is just one day at a time. Stay close to us here and let us walk with you. Much love and care.

AnneW

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So true. I got much help here when I most needed it. I cannot help but care about anyone going through this.

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Thank u all

I managed to stop the tears long enough today, with much difficulty, to go through photos and music for a memorial service dated sometime in the next couple weeks. After I get her ashes back. The photos were immensely painful to look through, yet so surreal in doing so. Particularly of when we first met, our wedding, the birth of our son, and our grandsons. The music brought back strong memories. Songs from our wedding. Our first dance. I must write a eulogy and that is something that seems an I possible challenge. I have all the feelings in my heart, but putting them to words... I just don't know how I will do it.

Anyhow, tonight the tears are back again. And with a terrifying emptiness and fear. I can't honestly describe. I just know that this is the beginning of a journey I question whether I have enough strength to walk.

I saw my new therapist today. It is hard to go there and not have many words.

I'm beyond exhausted. I am going to take Little Man and lay down in our bed that I've not yet laid in since her passing 5nights ago. It will not seem right. But I have to try and I must try to shut my eyes and find some comfort there for it was our place... And ours alone.

Little Man needs comfort too. He's so lost without his Momma.

I am drinking lots of tea and water. Food is something that is not a priority for me right now. I know it should be. Hopefully that will improve in some time.

Butch

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Dear friends,

Jane and I loved house plants in the winter. They brightened things. Jane got into creating topiaries at one point and created a heart from an old coat hanger and an English ivy. When Jane was in the hospital, I rarely got home, but when I did I made sure everything got a good drink. When I came home after she died, we had lost just one of the plants--the topiary heart. The symbolism was not lost on me.

But in another pot there was a single tiny sprig of ivy that had survived. I took the heart frame and moved it into that pot. I have tended it carefully since then. Forty-nine months after Jane's death that single strand has grown to cover 4/5s of that frame. It is not as dense as it was when Jane was alive--that will take a couple of circuits--but it has nearly filled the frame. I tell myself my heart will finally be healed, perhaps, when that frame is filled again with green life. A couple more sprigs have appeared in that pot. Eventually, they will grow long enough to join that first strand and strengthen that heart.

Not long before Jane's cancer came to light, I was reading a story about the Dragonriders of Pern. One of the Riders loses his dragon and the children ask why he is so sad. They are told that if a man or woman loses their dragon they lose half their heart. One of the children tasks how long it takes for the missing piece of heart to grow back. None of the adults have an answer.

When Jane died, I suddenly knew what it was to have only half a heart--and I had no idea how long it would take for that piece of my heart to grow back--or if it would do so at all. That silly topiary tells me each day how to regrow my heart--and reminds me every day that it is possible. It takes patience and careful tending--but it can be done.

I don't expect ever to love again in the way that I loved Jane. But I know that, some day, my heart will be fully healed. It will not be the same as it was before. There will be scar tissue there that is never quite right. A part of me is dead and beyond recovery. But I will grow strong again and I will love again. Truth be told, I have never stopped loving--even in the worst hours of grief. I will love Jane until I die--and even then I will still love her.

And I will love the world and every creature in it--because I always have. The pain of loss makes us forget our true nature at times--but forgetting does not mean that nature vanishes or ceases to be. When we are born, the agony of birth makes us forget where we came from. But that pain does not leave us empty of who we are, nor does it change where we came from or where we will go.

Jane's death cost me a great deal. It has taxed me physically, mentally and emotionally to the limits of my strength--and sometimes it has seemed like beyond that. And it still hurts--hurts more than anyone who has not had a similar loss can know. But it has made me a better man than I was. It has made me more compassionate, more patient and more driven to be of help than I was before. I understand now things that I really only knew in theory before--as much as I truly believed I understood them.

We each have a road to walk and things to endure. We learn from every thing and every being we encounter--and from every experience. Jane paid a hideous price for the knowledge she gained from her illness--and I have paid a hideous price for what I learned from losing her and what I have faced every day since. I cannot dishonor her sacrifice or my own by turning my back on what I have learned--or by failing to share those things with those who need that knowledge.

I have learned what it takes to love those around you when what you really want to do is hate them for the things they still have that you do not--and that you will never likely have again. I have learned what it takes to hold a broken soul in your hands and will it back to life and health. And I have learned, again, to let the dying go. Most importantly, I have learned what it is--and what it takes--to grow a new heart.

Be well, all of you.

Peace,

Harry

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Butch, I wish you peace as you try to rest tonight, you and Little Man.

Is there someone who could help you write the eulogy? If you wrote down the points you want covered, maybe someone else could help you put it together?

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I don't see anyone else writing it. Things they don't know or don't have feelings about. Specifics of her heart soul and personality. How selfless she was. In caring for others before herself. I've decided to talk about how she cared for Ziggy, Leo, and Shannon and never gave up. I don't care if certain people believe that she threw herself into Leo and Shannon's care and therefore she didn't live as long.

Anyhow, I just need to write it all myself. I knew her better than anyone. I understood her best. Through thick and thin. In sickness and health. I knew her heart and what was in it always. Without words. We shared an amazing son. Were blessed with two amazing grandsons. We lost. More specifically SHE lost and I walked with her. WE lost two little ones, Twins, before term, at 27 weeks gestation when Allen was three years old. An event that broke both our hearts and something never brought up by others... Only each other.

I will get it written. The memorial is not set yet and it will most likely be later towards February than sooner. Allen isn't going to help me because he has to focus on writing his own. He is very articulate though.

It's just so hard with a head and heart so jumbled in shock and overwhelmed.

It's 5am. I dozed a little. But made myself just stay in bed so at least maybe my body could rest.

A little funny... I wanted to lay on Mary's pillows. I wanted to snuggle with her side of the blankets. It turned into an all out tug of war between Little Man and myself for Mary's side. He HAD to lay on her pillows. He HAD to roll his tiny little self up in her side of the blankets. It was hard to do both at once. So he took her pillows and then I TRIED to take her side of the blankets. Nope. He HAD to then pull them from me. Then I tried to cuddle her pillows. Nope. He pulled them from me. :-). I was beat by a tiny canine! It was actually funny. It turned into playtime. But he really was serious. He wanted it all to himself. She was HIS momma. And I let him win of course. I even chuckled a bit. Bless his little heart. He misses her so much.

Thanks for always listening...

Harry, you speak so very eloquently about your Jane and your journey since she passed. I'm very sorry you are without her earthly body. I can imagine how proud she is of you and how you have gone on without her.

I can say that about everyone here.

Blessings to all of your hearts.

Butch

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Harry, you've created yet another stunning piece, and I hope you'll let me reprint in on the GH Blog.

Butch, my dear, you may not think so, but you have a beautiful, heartwarming way with words ~ and while it's probably the hardest thing you'll ever have to write, I've a feeling that your eulogy for your precious Mary will be perfect . . .

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